


Moonrise

by jpoe



Series: The Legend of the Cursed Vaults [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Harry Potter: Hogwarts Mystery (Video Game)
Genre: Other, Trans Character
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-01
Updated: 2021-02-27
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:41:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 47,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27338092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jpoe/pseuds/jpoe
Summary: Philippa Poe can't wait to go to Hogwarts. Hogwarts means new friends, an escape from her increasingly mad mother, and finally, finally getting sorted into Ravenclaw House. It’s also a chance to find out what happened to her brother Jacob, a talented but eccentric loner who went missing shortly after being expelled from Hogwarts. However, nothing is as she expects at the prestigious school of witchcraft and wizardry. Juggling friends, fiends, and full moons, Philippa learns to grow up, and fast.
Relationships: Ben Copper & Player Character (Hogwarts Mystery), Penny Haywood/Player Character, Rowan Khanna & Player Character
Series: The Legend of the Cursed Vaults [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1996198
Comments: 3
Kudos: 29





	1. A Brother’s Bedtime Story

“Tell it to me again.”

I spoke in a whisper, as though I might wake someone else in the room. But it was just us. It was always just us, it seemed: me and Jacob, Jacob and me. 

Tonight, our heads angled towards one another under a bedsheet fort we’d built in the sitting room, as we always did the night before he returned to Hogwarts. Our fort had to be much bigger this year — for the both of us, certainly, but especially Jacob, who had sprouted a half a head or more over the summer. The gentle glow of his wand illuminated our faces. He could change its colour with ease: Last year, it was a soothing royal blue, in honour of his beloved house at Hogwarts; the year before, a silvery white that made my eyes ache after an hour. 

This year, a warm amber washed over us while we sat cross-legged across from one another. I remember that night like it was yesterday: I hugged a pillow to my chest, looking up at him pleadingly, and he had on his favourite bedtime T-shirt (now noticeably small on him), shoulders draped by a cape-like quilt.

“I told you last year, and I said that was the only time…”

“Please,” I leaned forward. “I forgot.”

He eyed me slyly. Jacob had a way of looking right through me. “No, you didn’t forget. But I’ve been thinking… Maybe it’s best I tell you, at least a little. After all, I’m not sure if I’m going to—” He trailed off and looked into his lap. “Well, it’s best if someone else knows, anyway.”

“What?” I said imploringly. “Other people know, don’t they? You said loads of people believe in the Cursed Vaults—”

Jacob stuck a finger to his lips, before leaning in conspiratorially. “This year is different. This time, I know more. Much more. But first, Pip, swear to me that you won’t tell a living soul about this conversation.”

“You made me swear last year, too!”

“But this time, I really, really mean it.” His eyes flashed with a look I’d never seen in them before. Something wild. Something _dangerous_. 

“I’m dead serious, Pip. I’d cast the Unbreakable Vow if I knew how.” 

“But—”

 _Swear. Now._ He said it only with his eyes, but I heard it in my head, clear as day.

“OK, OK. I swear.”

Jacob held my gaze for a few seconds longer, then dropped it. I felt as if I could breathe again as he twiddled his thumbs. Here was the brother I knew — a sheepish teenager who picked at hangnails until they bled and always had his nose buried in a book. Who raced me down the stairs and let me win. Who kept up the blanket fort tradition for six years strong, just because I asked him to.

“I have proof,” he said slowly, as though squeezing the truth out of himself. “About the Vaults. They exist, and there’s five of them.”

“Really?” I breathed. “Where? What do they look like?”

“I can’t… I’m sorry, Pip. I can’t tell you that.” He looked truly remorseful, albeit guarded. He seemed to be grappling with two demons — one to let me in further, one to shut me out, neither particularly desirable.

“How come?”

“You’d understand if you knew. But I hope you don’t. Get caught up in all this, I mean.” Jacob was picking a particularly stubborn hangnail on his thumb. “Hogwarts is the best place in the world, for now. I know you’re going to love it. I want your time there to be… to be perfect.” He smiled weakly.

“I just wish we could go together,” I chirped. His very mention of Hogwarts was enough to distract me from the Vaults and the vow I’d just made. “Tell me again what it was like the night You-Know-Who went away.”

Jacob smiled. He had teeth like mine — too big for his face, gappy but charmingly so. “Yeah. Well, we were heading up the tower from the Hallowe'en feast in the Great Hall, when…”

And just like that, he launched into another story, a blessed vista into Hogwarts Castle. That lifeline out of Canterbury, out of our wretched-house-made-more-wretched, was the greatest gift Jacob ever gave me.

It goes without saying that the least I could do was keep Jacob’s promise. Up until now, anyway.


	2. Mr Khanna’s Enchanted Map

_— One Year Later —_

I stepped inside the musty, cluttered store. Was this really the sole wand purveyor in all of the British Isles? And if so, why on earth was I the only one in here, the Saturday before the start of the new Hogwarts term? 

All that day, I’d tried not to show it, strutting like a rooster from shop to shop, but I couldn’t shake it: Diagon Alley had always freaked me out. For someone whose mother scarcely let them walk home from the bus stop after school, school shopping alone was a huge leap. Of course, under normal circumstances, my mum would have been here with me, tittering worriedly and meticulously checking our shopping bags against the school supply list…

I swallowed back the lump lodged in my throat. Then again, last night had been about as normal as it got for Mum and I these days. We’d had a terrible row — what else was new? — but this one, unlike the others, ended with her threatening not to let me go to Hogwarts. I’d said something I regretted, regretted horribly…

Rather than yell back at me, Mum did something much worse. She fell silent, and fixed me with that wan, impossibly sad look she’d worn for the past year and a half, mostly when she thought I wasn’t watching. Like something in her had died, and kept dying over and over again.

_“Fine. Go to that school, then. But don’t expect my help.”_

* * *

That morning, I awoke at dawn, raided Mum’s coat pockets for all the Galleons and pounds I could find, and bought myself a two-way ticket from Canterbury to London. I biked to the train station under a robin’s-egg-blue sky, weaving around some of the drunks and bums still out on the street. 

After we moved back to the UK from America, we cycled through a few dodgy Muggle neighbourhoods — exactly where a wizarding family like ours was safest, ironically enough. I think Mum and Dad reckoned that non-magic folks with a batty streak in them wouldn’t think twice about our quirks, like how Jacob and I’s trikes sometimes revved and ripped like motorcycles, or how our parents occasionally left the house in head-to-toe robes.

Except for when we took family trips to County Durham, where my mum's from, I didn’t interact with any other magical families outside my own before going to Hogwarts. It sounds like an odd thing nowadays, but you have to remember: From when I was born up until the day I turned nine years old, He Who Must Not Be Named was getting stronger all the time. Some magical families figured they had strength in numbers and glommed up in wizarding villages. Those not on the front line — those not marked for death by You-Know-Who — gambled on their luck and got the hell out of dodge. In my parents’ case, that meant embedding themselves in whatever community would take them. 

Of course, two Hallowe'ens before, their reason for hiding was seemingly wiped off the face of the earth. But you know _that_ story.

Even so, Mum, Jacob, and I ended up staying in rotten old Canterbury for good — not because we _had_ to, but because by then, we had nowhere better to go. (But I'll get into all that later. Maybe.)

For now, it’s enough to know how me, my mum, Jacob, and, for a while, my dad came to plant ourselves in this perpetually scaffolded, never-silent strip of Canterbury, squashed against the motorway and a stone's throw from the train station. In some ways, it was the most visible part of the city, at least to newcomers. Hiding in plain sight, as it were.

My train set off, and I watched the industrial panorama of the city melt into English countryside, now brilliantly illuminated by the sun. Once we pulled into St Pancras, I perched on a bench until I spotted someone with the telltale signs of being a wizard — Muggle clothes a little askance, perhaps a child tittering excitedly over a piece of parchment. 

A grey-haired couple with a boy my age seemed to fit the bill, so I followed them out, making sure to hop on the same Underground car. I was glad I did: I thought I remembered the way to Diagon Alley after visiting two years ago with Jacob, but the moment I saw all those stops displayed in the station, I remembered just how big London was. 

Turns out Diagon Alley was even bigger than I remembered, too. At least, it felt that way when you weren’t being led by the hand everywhere. I followed the surge of people, finally finding Flourish & Blotts and Potage’s Cauldron Shop. I felt a twinge passing Eeylops Owl Emporium: Jacob and I were to have shared his owl, Tawn, had she not gone missing along with him. Every night, I still listened for Tawn at my windowsill; the notion of getting an owl of my own — beyond being too unwieldy for a solo shopping trip — felt unspeakably wrong. 

Eventually, only my wand was left. But by the time I walked into Ollivander’s, whatever exhilaration I’d felt boarding the train in Canterbury that morning had transfigured into a low-grade panic attack. Would I even be able to find my way back to the train station later?

 _Merlin’s beard, how could Mum just drop me into the deep end like_ _this?_

* * *

“Hello, there. Might you be looking for me?” 

I jumped. A man emerged from the shelves behind the counter, snapping me back to the present. He looked indescribably wizened, like he’d been born in that dusty old shop and would inevitably die there.

His eyes crinkled kindly. “You’ve come a long way, haven’t you?”

“I’m looking for a wand,” I said by way of introduction.

“Then you’re in the right place.” He waggishly propped an elbow on the counter, near the register — the “register,” in this case, being a giant abacus. “Garrick Ollivander is my name. Here to receive your first wand, then?”

 _The_ Ollivander. Wow. “That’s right.”

“Well, I have just the thing for a lass like you.” He reached under the counter and I tried to swallow my irritation. Never in my life had anyone started a sentence like that that ended up being true.

“Here ’tis,” he said, pulling out a dainty little twig. “Applewood, with a unicorn hair core. Nine inches. Give that a twirl, will you?”

I sceptically swished it. Just then, all the yellowing receipts piled on one corner of the counter blew off with a flurry, as though swept up by a powerful gale.

“Sorry!” I yelped.

“Not your fault! The wand chooses the wizard, not the other way around, and that is clearly not the wand for you.” Ollivander scooped up what he could of the receipts before they went flying. “Your brother exploded my favourite inkpot when he tried his first wand.”

I swiveled towards him. “You knew my brother?”

“I remember every wand I’ve ever sold, and every face I’ve sold it to. One look at yours and there’s no doubt you’re related.” 

He wasn’t wrong. Jacob and I had always looked alike: When he was younger, he was stocky, too, before puberty stretched him like Silly Putty, and we had the same high cheekbones, square-set jaw, and grey eyes, framed by long lashes and brows darker than our hair. We shared a smattering of freckles, and both flushed easily in the sun. The only difference was his hair fell — no, used to fall — in bouncy waves around his face. Mine, to my eternal irritation, flopped straight down over my forehead and ears.

“Yes, his was maple wood, dragon heartstring core, ten inches — a fine wand. It’s a shame they snapped it in half when he was expelled.”

I flinched.

Ollivander peered at me kindly but inquisitively. “I understand he ran away from home after being expelled, and has been missing ever since. That must have had a profound impact on you...”

I was acutely aware of the lump in my throat, and when I finally spoke, my voice was hoarse. “I just want answers, honestly. I promised myself I won’t leave Hogwarts without figuring out what happened to him.”

Ollivander was silent, looking me up and down. I wondered if I’d said too much to the old man. Then, he nodded approvingly. “I have just the wand for you, my child.” He disappeared down the corridor, then emerged, dusting off a long, narrow case. 

“I’ve got one more in stock,” he said. “Give this a swish, why don’t you?” 

I opened up the case and felt the wand in my hands. Something about the weight and the way it rested in my hand felt right. _Only one way to find out for sure._ I flicked my wrist.

The tip of the wand illuminated, and a warm gust enveloped me like an embrace. So _that’s_ what it felt like to be a proper wizard. 

“Splendid. I had a feeling.” Ollivander smiled to himself. “Ten-inch maple, with a dragon heartstring core.”

I watched as my wand light dimmed. “You mean… the same kind of wand as my brother?” 

“Yes. I haven’t sold a wand like it since your brother passed through here.” He shifted around the beads on the abacus. “That would have been, what, five years ago now?”

“Seven. He would have finished school this year. ” I gripped my wand harder. “Ought to have.”

Ollivander put on his spectacles as he jotted down my total. “Ahh. While I can remember every single wand that’s passed through here, dates confound me. Students come, students go; students become great wizards...” He tore off my receipt from the long scroll he was writing on and handed it to me. “...while others become architects of catastrophe.”

I gulped and signed the receipt. I handed it back, along with a fistful of Galleons, and Ollivander looked at me slyly. “I’ll be interested to see what path you choose, Miss Poe…”

“I will, too, Mr. Ollivander,” I stammered, before feeling it was a right foolish thing to say.

I left in such haste that I didn’t register that I was still clutching my wand in my hand when I stumbled out into Diagon Alley. Nor did I register the person standing just outside the shop, whom I promptly rammed right into. 

“Sorry,” I mumbled. The kid turned to look at me, then stooped to get a better look at my wand. She had wick-straight, glossy black hair and a narrow face. I noticed her blouse was buttoned incorrectly, and when she glanced up at me, her glasses looked just a touch crooked.

“Wow! Is that a maple wood wand?” 

“Erm, yes. How did you know?”

“My family’s tree farm supplies wood for wands and brooms, so I’m something of an expert.” She gestured at an Asian family of four standing a few paces behind her. The matriarch, a graceful-looking woman with a baby strapped on her back, dashed after a scrawny, hyperactive boy who seemed to have swallowed a fistful of Fizzing Whizbees, seeing as he was floating a metre off the ground; the patriarch stood nearby, yammering at a burly, dark-haired man, whose teenage daughter was holding a very expensive-looking broom. It was as though he'd intentionally mismatched his clothing, his too-short trousers showcasing baggy, ill-fitting socks.

“I take it you’re off to Hogwarts, too? I’ve been reading _Hogwarts: A History_ to prepare for first year, so you could say I’m something of an expert.” She flashed me a smile nearly too wide for her face. “I can loan it to you, if you’d like?”

“No need. I brought my copy.” I smirked. “I don’t know anyone else my age who’s bothered to read it. My big brother couldn’t even make it through the book before first year, and he was top in his house — in Ravenclaw, no less.”

“Really? Ravenclaw’s my dream house!”

“Mine too! Both of my parents were in Ravenclaw. I bought loads of spiritwear during the Hogwarts Cup a few years ago.” 

She bounced on her heels. “I can’t think of a better fit, honestly. I love reading and learning, especially about magic. Also, it keeps me from going outside and farming.” She hoisted up her stuffed-to-the-gills book bag. “Someday, I want to be the youngest professor to ever teach at Hogwarts.”

“Good luck with that,” I scoffed. “It’s the best wizarding school in the world. My parents were professors at Ilvermorny for ten years each but couldn’t get a job at Hogwarts.” The girl deflated a little, so I backpedaled. “But hey, if you’ve already read _Hogwarts: A History_ cover to cover, sounds like you’ve got a fighting chance.”

She brightened. “Name’s Rowan, Rowan Khanna. What’s yours?”

“Philippa Poe. But my schoolmates call me Phil for short.”

Rowan froze. “Poe… As in Jacob Poe?”

I bit my lip. I guess I should have seen this coming. “Yes.”

“The same Jacob Poe who was expelled from Hogwarts? He was in _Ravenclaw_?”

“Yes, yes, we’re all caught up,” I said impatiently. “How do you know all this, anyway?”

“That was a big story in the _Daily Prophet_. Everyone at school will know.”

I tucked my wand into my robes. She was right, though I’d desperately hoped that wouldn’t be the case. 

To my relief, Rowan abruptly changed the subject. “Say, my mum gave me a little bit of pocket money for a beginning-of-term gift. I want to buy something that will let everyone at Hogwarts know I’m a serious intellectual who’s well on her way to becoming Head Girl.” She straightened her glasses haughtily, but only succeeded in setting them more askance. “Any suggestions?”

Over her shoulder, I saw a well-dressed boy our age striding into Flourish & Blotts with his parents, who looked like massive fussbudgets. He was ensconced, rather unseasonably, in a huge purple scarf that possibly represented a Quidditch team, though I didn’t know which one.

“How about a smart scarf? Nobody ever looked bad in a scarf.”

“That’s quite true,” Rowan said with a sagely nod. “Well, I’d better do that before I run out of time. My mom’s pretty fed up with chasing after my brother every time we go to Diagon Alley.” I glanced over my shoulder to see the tiny imp cackling, high up one of the massive pillars in front of Gringotts. Rowan’s mother could be heard chastising him above the din, and some shoppers craned their necks to watch. 

“Wait. One more thing.” I loathed asking for help, but something in my gut told me to trust Rowan and her family. “Do you or your parents know how to get back to St Pancras Station, by any chance?”

“We Flooed here,” Rowan said apologetically. “But I’ve got an idea. One sec.”

She dashed off and tugged on her father’s sleeve, who was still talking to the family with the fancy broom. He seemed reluctant to be tugged away from his conversation; I got the sense that the other bloke — a dark-haired, broad man — was a big deal.

“What’s the problem?” He saw me and broke into a broad smile; his daughter was a carbon copy of him. “Hi, there. Dev Khanna. Pleasure to meet you. So, you’re Hogwarts-bound, too?”

“Dad, Phil here needs help getting back to St Pancras. Can you do that thing you did to our Underground map a few years back?”

“ _Shh_. Rowan, pea, quiet — it’s not, erm, strictly _allowed_ …” He glanced over his shoulder.

“Oh, come on, Dad!”

Mr Khanna sighed. “All right. I suppose I’d be hypocritical not to… just hope Arthur Weasley’s not around.”

He dug in his bag until he pulled out an old, incredibly wrinkled map of London. It was one of those kitschy, touristy ones they sold at bodegas and newsstands; it looked as though it had been mouldering in the bottom of his bag for years. 

Mr Khanna wordlessly waved his wand over it. I watched in amazement as the numbered dot denoting St Pancras glowed, as did all the possible routes to the station. Another radiant point emerged on the map near the London Bridge. I peered closer. It was a tiny rendering of my face. 

“Wicked,” I breathed.

“It’ll track your movements, too. The enchantment should wear off after an hour. Now, this is very important: Do _not_ lose this map. You cannot, under any circumstances, let a Muggle see it. Otherwise the Ministry’ll have my head… again.” Mr Khanna shyly tucked his wand back into his waistband. “Looks like one of those uses the Underground. I’d take that one and memorise the route as much as you can.”

“Thanks so much, sir.”

“My pleasure. Thank _you_ for being so kind to my pea.” Rowan flushed and rolled her eyes, as though embarrassed, but her smile betrayed her delight. I felt a twinge of envy at their apparent closeness.

“Well — Rowan, right? I’ll catch you aboard the Hogwarts Express on the First, then. Remember,” I tacked on, as though possessed by my mother’s spirit, “it leaves at 9 o’clock sharp. Don’t be late!”

Rowan shot me that big grin, mirrored by her father's. “Of course not!” They saw me off to the exit and waved until I was out of sight, swallowed up by the now-bustling weekend crowds.


	3. The Sorting, Sort Of

Despite her pledge, Rowan only just barely managed to board the train on September First. The conductor was making final calls when she flew up the stairs, glasses fogged from her own breath. A horribly clashing scarf fluttered around her neck. Guess she’d taken my advice to heart. 

Miraculously, I still had a compartment to myself. I’d lied and said I was saving seats for friends whenever someone asked; I’d had another big row with Mum, this time about Jacob and whether Hogwarts was really “safe.” After all that, the very idea of reintroducing myself as Jacob Poe’s sibling seemed exhausting.

Rowan flopped across from me. “A chatty old Muggle asked for directions right in front of Platform 9 ¾ and I couldn’t get away,” she wheezed, still out of breath. “I’ve never been so stressed in my life — well, besides that time I got stuck in a hawthorn tree and Dad tried a Summoning Charm to get me down. Those don’t work so great on humans, you know.”

“Close one. Good thing you made it.” I nodded vaguely. “I saved you that spot.”

“Did you? Thanks!” Rowan unbuckled her shoes so she could prop her stockinged legs, runs and all, up on the seat, knees by her chin. 

I stuck my head out of the compartment, then walked a couple paces in both directions. The pastry cart was on its way.

I slid back inside. “I don’t get it. My mum wouldn’t shut up about how crowded and miserable her ride to Hogwarts was every year. But this train looks half empty.”

Rowan lifted _Magical Draughts and Potions_ out of her bag. “Attendance must be at an all-time low.”

“What do you mean?”

“Wait.” Rowan peered over the cover of her textbook. “I thought you said you’d read _Hogwarts, A History_?”

“I have, cover to cover. See?” I pulled it out of my unzipped backpack, which was sitting on the seat next to me. I’d been rereading snippets to pass the time while waiting for Rowan to board.

She took the book from my hands and peered at the spine, then the inside cover. “Oh, right. You have the eleventh edition. That’s what they assign for History of Magic. It must just be in the fiftieth anniversary edition, then. It has brand-new illustrations and a foreword that mentions the Wizarding War and the defeat of You-Know-Who.” Rowan rattled off, sounding like an encyclopedia. “It’s a shame Bathilda Bagshot won’t update it past the nineteenth century, but my dad tells me she’s not well.” 

“I’ve heard that, too.”

Rowan’s eyes took on a far-off look. “Anyway, it says that enrollment at Hogwarts has been sharply declining due to low birth rates during the War, but the trend was still inconclusive at the time of publication. I noticed it while walking down the carriage, though, didn’t you? We must be one of the tiniest classes at Hogwarts in years.”

I thought back to my refracted memories of the Hogwarts Cup three years ago. Rowan was right, I realised with a start: The stands _had_ looked rather thin, with more alumni attending than students. I frowned, unsure if low enrollment was a good or bad thing. 

“Maybe that’s why your parents couldn’t get a job at Hogwarts,” Rowan proffered, generously. “Nothing against them, you know — just not enough students to teach.” 

I didn’t respond, but I privately hoped she was right.

“Say,” Rowan said, breaking the silence, “you mentioned your parents taught at Ilvermorny for ten years. What do they do now?”

I balled up my fists. Here it comes. I hated talking about my parents enough that I briefly considered lying. Instead, I settled on the truth — just not the full truth.

“Well… My mum tutors rich kids in Charms. And my dad lives back in America now.”

“Oh, so he still teaches at Ilvermorny?”

“No, he quit when my mum was laid off, years ago. But they’re not married anymore.” 

I hoped my sob story would throw her off her line of questioning. I wasn’t keen to fill in the other blanks: that my mum might tutor Charms now, but at Ilvermorny, she taught Divination, a joke of a subject; that Ilvermorny sacked her when they took Divination off the course list; that we moved to the UK when I was three so they could position themselves to become Hogwarts professors — which, of course, never happened; that my dad left us to live with a Muggle woman he’d apparently fallen in love with back in America; that he was now no better than a Squib, working — ironically enough — as a marriage and family therapist in North Adams, Mass. 

Sure enough, Rowan knit her brows together sympathetically. “Oh, Phil. I’m sorry. That must’ve been really hard.”

Blessedly, the pastry cart arrived right on queue, and Rowan and I loaded up on pumpkin pasties and chocolate frogs. Rowan was the only person I knew with a more prodigious Famous Witches and Wizards card collection than I — and mine was no slouch. She’d even brought hers, organised alphabetically in a little leather-bound book. But I lucked out during the train ride: Of the three I bought off the trolley, two were cards I’d never had before.

“You’ve got Falco Aesalon, the first recorded Animagus, and… _Wowza!_ You got the card for The Boy Who Lived!” Rowan held it up to her glasses for a better look. “I haven’t even come across this one… Oh, what a cute little baby. Just a rendering, of course; no one knows what he looks like, except for the lightning bolt scar. You know, my dad says we’re related. Third cousins, thrice removed. You reckon I could survive the Killing Curse too?” 

She handed it back to me, her gaze lingering over the card longingly. “I wonder how he did it. Survived, I mean. I’ve read and read and tried to figure it out, too, you know, but I’m as stumped as everyone else… Say, I’ll trade you, if you’d like. You said you don’t have an Armando Dippet, right? I’d give you that one. Heck, I’d give you all four Founders for a Harry Potter card!”

“Not for sale, sorry.” 

Rowan tucked away her duplicated cards in her scrapbook, nodding sagely to herself as though she’d have done the same thing.

“Do you… Would you like to talk about Jacob a bit, then?” 

I heaved a great sigh. “I don’t know anything about why he disappeared, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“No, no, not that. Just, you know… what he’s like.” 

I blinked uncomprehendingly at first. I was so used to getting peppered with endless questions about the circumstances of Jacob’s disappearance that I couldn’t recall the last time someone had asked me or my family about _him_. I also felt a rush of warmth hearing Rowan say “is,” present tense. Few people talked about Jacob that way.

“Well… he’s pretty quiet. Not at home, so much, but around people he doesn’t know, he can be quite shy. Real smart, but mum always says he doesn’t do the best in social situations — that he has trouble reading a room. High IQ, low EQ, she says.” I shrugged. “But he’s kind, he’s smart, and he’s funny. He’s a great big brother, really.”

Rowan smiled. “I love my brother and sister more than anything in the universe, too.”

I smiled back but held my tongue. I felt on the verge of tears and didn’t want the dam to break in front of this girl I’d only just met. We rode the rest of the way in occasionally punctuated silence, mostly broken by Rowan. But whenever I didn’t respond, she was quite content to keep flipping through her Potions textbook.

* * *

After stepping off the Hogwarts Express, all the first years clambered on rowboats to get to the castle. I tried to take in the faces of my new classmates, but it was impossibly dark; I hadn't appreciated quite how long we'd been on the train. Most kids’ faces were a blur, frantically looking to and fro and shivering from cold, terror, or some combination of the two.

Rowan and I were less thrown: We already knew what to expect upon arriving at Hogwarts. At my behest, Jacob had retold the story of his arrival at Hogwarts dozens of times, not least of which because some hapless Hufflepuff-to-be in his class had tumbled into the lake.

“This way; watch yer step.” That was Hagrid, Hogwarts’ groundskeeper and — I’d bet a Galleon to a Gobstone — at least a half-giant. He helped students off their boats by sticking out one beefy arm; three or four students grabbed on, and he hoisted them all to shore.

From there, Hagrid led us to the Great Hall, which was even more stunning than I imagined. Four impossibly long banners were strewn through the chandeliers from end to end, all in the brilliant house hues. They dangled over the longest tables I’d ever seen in my life, at least a hundred meters long with easily that many students at each table. Or maybe double that — I always was rotten at estimating numbers.

I was so gobsmacked by seeing the Great Hall in person that I didn’t even notice I’d stopped square in the entryway.

“Wow,” I gasped. “Rowan, this is brilliant!”

“Move it!” someone barked from behind me.

“Yes, but it’d be even more brilliant to actually get sorted into our house,” Rowan teased, tugging at my sleeve. “Come on!”

We followed the rest to the front of the hall. A tall, imposing woman was standing before the hall. In the chair next to her was a raggedy peaked cap. My heart pounded in my chest.

Rowan nudged me excitedly. “Look, it’s Professor McGonagall with the Sorting Hat! And behind her, I think, are Severus Snape, Pomona Sprout, Filius Flitwick, and…”

“Dumbledore,” we both whispered in awe.

“Pinch me, I _must_ be dreaming,” Rowan swooned. “…Ouch! Hey, I was kidding!”

By now, I’d been smiling so hard my cheeks hurt. “I can’t believe we’re really here. I’ve only read about all these witches and wizards in the _Daily Prophet_ , or heard my family talk about them."

“I know! Oh, I'm jealous. Wouldn’t it be a dream to get to live at Hogwarts _forever_?” 

Just then, I locked eyes with Severus Snape, who shot me a glare so rotten it chilled my blood. Obviously, he knew whose little sibling I was. I shivered. “Well, maybe.”

I was lost in thought, thinking of Jacob, when McGonagall tapped a spoon against a goblet.

“May I have your attention.” McGonagall didn’t raise her voice, instead waiting for the hall to settle down. “Welcome to Hogwarts. Before the Welcoming Feast, we must sort all first-year students into their proper houses. 

Rowan and I exchanged eager glances.

“While you are here, your house will be something like your family within Hogwarts,” McGonagall continued. “The four houses are Gryffindor, the brave and chivalrous; Hufflepuff, the kind and diligent —” I noticed that Rowan was mouthing along with McGonagall’s spiel. How on earth did she know this stuff by heart? “— Ravenclaw, the witty and wise, and Slytherin, the cunning and ambitious. Each house has its own noble history, and each has produced outstanding witches and wizards.” 

Though she did not smile, McGonagall’s face seemed to soften somewhat as she looked us over. “I hope you all will be fine additions to their ranks.”

“I’ll see you in Ravenclaw,” I whispered to Rowan.

“Now, without further ado, let us begin with… _Ali, Badeea!”_

A short girl in a black hijab approached the ornate, ancient-looking wooden chair next to McGonagall. The Sorting Hat was so huge on her that it slipped down to her eyebrows. Between student and hat, the Ali girl looked more serene; meanwhile, the Sorting Hat hemmed and hawed for what felt like impossibly long before angling its brim upwards to declare its verdict: “ _Ravenclaw!”_

A cheer rose up from the table over our left shoulder. I whipped around to admire the sea of blue and bronze.

“Sixty-five seconds!” Rowan marveled. “The Sorting Hat’s average deciding time is twelve and a half. She must have been a tough placement!”

“I didn’t think it was possible to be even more excited to get sorted,” I said, “but I am now.”

After that was a Hufflepuff and a Gryffindor. The Hufflepuff seemed pleased, dashing over to a hooting and hollering house table when his placement was called. But the Gryffindor seemed strangely put off by the Sorting Hat’s call.

“He looks terrified,” Rowan said. “I feel sorry for him."

“Yeah, what’s his problem?”

It seemed as though the next few students alternated going into Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw, though of course, I was hardly paying attention. Nor was Rowan, I’m sure. We were both too caught up in our impending placements.

“No Slytherins in our year so far?” Rowan mused aloud.

“Good news for wizardkind, I’d say,” I quipped.

“ _Shh!!”_ hissed a brunette girl in front of us. We were mumbling our apologies when the Sorting Hat crowed:

 _“Khanna, Rowan!”_

Rowan jumped. “My turn, then. Phil, I’m terribly anxious.”

“Don’t worry, you _must_ be a Ravenclaw,” I assured her. “You fit the house to a tee.”

Rowan smiled weakly. “Here goes nothing!” She sidled her way through the thatch of students and, after returning Rowan’s nervous grin with a curt nod, Professor McGonagall dropped the Sorting Hat on her head.

The Sorting Hat was uncharacteristically stoic the whole time it was perched on Rowan’s crown. Then, after several seconds, it nodded solemnly. “My, my. So that’s how it has to be. _Hufflepuff!_ ”

My stomach somersaulted as the Hufflepuff table roared with raucous applause. Rowan, a _Hufflepuff?_ That didn’t sound right. Rowan looked shocked, too, before breaking out into a tighter version of her usual grin and nodding her thanks to McGonagall.

Rowan stumbled back to me on her way to the Hufflepuff house table. “That wasn’t quite what I expected.”

“It’s bollocks is what it is.” I patted her shoulder. “I’m sorry, Rowan.”

“It’s OK.” She shrugged. “Who am I to doubt the Sorting Hat? It carries the combined knowledge of Godric Gryffindor, Rowena Ravenclaw, Salazar Slytherin, _and_ Helga Hufflepuff — whom I guess should start reading up on, stat.”

“Right.” I frowned. “Well, it looks like we might not be in the same house, after all.”

“That’s all right.” She squeezed my hand. “That doesn’t have to stop us from being friends, you know.”

I watched Rowan hustle off to join the other Hufflepuffs at the house table. One hugged her, while another boy clapped her back and tousled her hair, knocking her classes askew. I could hear her laughter from across the room. It was as though all her apprehension had evaporated the moment she took a seat at that table. I felt some relief from the guilt already beginning to gnaw at me. Rowan looked happy to be there, at least.

After some consideration, the Sorting Hat sorted the next two boys into Gryffindor and Slytherin; both house tables responded with polite applause and some whoops. But when the next two girls — the first of whom was a small, timid-looking thing with platinum blonde hair — were sorted into Hufflepuff, the gold- and black-bedecked flank veritably exploded again.

“At least they have plenty of house spirit,” I muttered.

The brown-haired girl in front of me turned around. I noticed that she had a copper streak in her fringe — an old bleach job gone bad, looked like.

“Please. I can’t imagine a worse fate than being sorted into Hufflepuff,” she sneered. “They’re an embarrassment to Hogwarts.”

I opened my mouth to argue with the bleached-fringe girl, but couldn’t think of anything to say, really. In fact, watching the older Hufflepuff boys thump their chests like savages when the timid girl joined them at the table, I was almost compelled to agree with her.

“Slytherin!” the Sorting Hat cried, snapping me out my stupor. The pallid girl at the front of the hall had been sorted speedily. The same brown-haired girl burst into applause, watching our year’s second Slytherin closely as she slunk over to her new house table.

“Friend of yours?” I asked.

She turned her head a few degrees. “Sorry, Hufflepuff, are you talking to me?”

I gave her a shove, a little rougher than I’d meant to. “Hey, shut up. I haven’t even been sorted yet.”

_“Poe, Philippa!”_

I felt the heat of hundreds of scrutinizing, inquisitive eyes turn toward me. It didn’t occur to me in the moment how odd it was that so many people recognised me straightaway. Naturally, the nasty girl followed their gazes. Her eyes widened, then narrowed.

“ _Poe_ , huh? It doesn’t matter where you’re sorted, then. You’ll be an embarrassment no matter what.”

I dropped my eyes and clenched my fists. So much for flying under the radar my first year at Hogwarts. I avoided McGonagall’s eyes and sank into the creaky chair, then flinched when the Sorting Hat was placed — maybe more like dropped — on my head.

 _Poe… Quite a portentous name you have,_ the Hat’s voice boomed around my temples. _One brother, who went to Ravenclaw. Exceedingly talented, he was — some might say too much for his own good._

“I know,” I responded, a little tartly.

 _Hmm. It is true that I take student preferences into account..._ It seemed like the Sorting Hat had read my mind. I registered that my hands were shaking, so I folded them to hide it. _But in your case, there’s no need. The answer is all too clear to me._

I beamed. “Oh, that’s a relief. Thank you—”

“ _Hufflepuff!_ ”

My face dropped. The all-too-predictable din erupted at the far-left table, but it was drowned out by a buzzing in my ears. All I could see was my brother as he’d looked the last time he left home for Hogwarts — he in the middle of a spirited story about his housemates, looking happier than I’d ever seen him, his knapsack straps straining with the weight of his textbooks, my mother lovingly straightening his striped blue tie — then, directly in front of me, that horrible brown-haired girl, howling with laughter.

I squirmed out from under the Sorting Hat, sweeping it off my head even before McGonagall could lift it off me, and sprinted out of the hall. I opened the door at the end of the passageway, slammed it shut, and sunk to the floor. I always tried to stop myself from crying whenever possible, but here, in this storage closet far away from the banquet, I sobbed bitterly until I was short of breath.

Who knows how long I spent there, crouched at the door crying. But even I knew when I had tired myself out. Once I could take in the silent stillness of the storage closet, I heard someone clear their throat.

“Um. Sorry…”

I looked up with a start. There was a blond boy sitting cross-legged on a box across the room, his face tugged downward by an implacable-looking frown.

“Who are you? What are you doing here?”

He recoiled. “Sorrysorrysorry, I promise I didn’t— I mean, I didn’t know—”

I fumbled through my robes, pulling out my wand and pointing it at him. “Tell me who you are before I cast _Rictusempra_ on you!”

He squawked and flung his hood over his face — which, I noticed, looked a little like my brother’s, if his face were stretched out at the chin. “B-B-Ben Copper, first year, originally from Rugby but spent a little time outside Liverpool and Brighton when I was younger, on account of my dad traveling for business.” He sucked in the hem of his hood as he gasped for breath. “And… as of fifteen minutes ago, a Gryffindor, I suppose. Though I think the Sorting Hat might have made a mistake.”

I put two and two together: He was the frightened Gryffindor from the sorting ceremony. I lowered my wand slowly. “Me, too. That’s why I’m here, actually. I was just sorted into Hufflepuff.”

Ben peeked out from under his hood. “Oh, congratulations.”

I groaned and flopped down on the floor again. “ _Please._ Everyone knows Hufflepuff’s a massive joke.” I traced a pattern onto the floor with the tip of my wand. “My brother was put in Ravenclaw. And I _know_ I’m clever enough for Ravenclaw. I skipped a level in Muggle school, and could have skipped another, but my mum wanted me to avoid being ‘socially maladjusted,’ whatever that means.”

I looked up to see Ben shrinking away from my wand in terror, so I pocketed it. “Sorry. I was lying about _Rictusempra_ , by the way. My mum wouldn't teach us any magic early, so I don’t actually know any spells.”

“That’s OK.” He slipped off his hood. “I don’t even know what that is, to be honest, but it sounds dreadful.”

“ _Rictusempra_? The tickling charm?” He looked at me vacantly. “Never mind. Anyway, I don’t know what to do. Whenever I pictured myself at Hogwarts, I always saw myself in Ravenclaw. My mum even packed my brother’s old spiritwear.”

Picturing the Ravenclaw quidditch jersey I’d never wear, I felt tears prick my eyes again. I impatiently wiped my face. What had gotten into me? I didn’t even care for Quidditch. 

“Well, Ben Copper from Rugby, say something, already!”

He tensed again. Boy, this bloke had nerves like a live wire. Perhaps the Sorting Hat _had_ gotten a little moth-chewed over the summer...

“For what it’s worth,” Ben stammered, “I just feel lucky to be here. I didn’t even know Hogwarts existed before I got my letter. And it’s nice to know that I might have a little courage in me. I mean, maybe. Probably not. But maybe.”

I sniffled. “Easy for you to say. Gryffindor is great. Tons of great witches and wizards were Gryffindors. But what’s so great about being a Hufflepuff?”

“Hufflepuffs are… loyal, right? Or did I mix that up with another house?”

I rolled my eyes. “Rhetorical question. If I had a Sickle for every time someone said ‘Hufflepuffs are loyal’ or ‘Hufflepuffs are great finders’ — like _that_ makes any difference…”

Ben shrugged. “I didn’t know too much about the houses coming into Hogwarts, but Hufflepuff sounded the finest to me. Why be known for one quality when you can be good at them all?”

I perked up. “I hadn’t thought of that before — that perhaps I’m a Hufflepuff because I’m just as smart as I am brave and ambitious. And that the Sorting Hat couldn’t possibly select just one house for me, so it put me in Hufflepuff.”

“I mean, you sure _seemed_ brave when you pointed your wand at me a few minutes ago...”

“And probably like a Slytherin-grade prick, too.” I reached out my hand for him to shake. “I’m Philippa, by the way. But call me Phil. That’s what I go by with my Muggle mates.”

“Muggle?”

Ah. It was obvious now: Ben had to be Muggle-born. I’d never met another wizard so utterly clueless about magic.

“Muggles are non-magical folks. You know — people who don’t know about Hogwarts or anything about us.”

“Right. Like my family. And all my schoolmates back in Rugby.” Ben deflated. “I couldn’t tell them where I was off to this year. Now I’ve got no friends.”

“Well…” Oh, boy. It was corny, but here goes: “I suppose I can be your friend, if you’d like.”

The heavy corners of Ben’s mouth lifted into a hesitant, tremulous smile.

“Come on,” I said, standing up and offering him a hand. “We might as well meet our housemates.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't mind me, just laughing my ass off at imagining Rowan getting Accio'ed out of a tree.
> 
> Note for those who have played the game: Yup, the Sorting here diverts from canon. I wanted to up the ante for MC a little bit, but I fully acknowledge Ravenclaw doesn't get nearly enough love. Will try to remedy that as the fic continues.


	4. A Not-So-Common Room

Ben and I emerged from the Artefact Room just as throngs of students surged from the hall. We must have skipped not just the Sorting Ceremony but also the Welcome Feast: Students were already congregating in the entrance hall, following the shouts of their respective Prefects. Ben and I waved timidly at one another, and I headed for the cluster surrounding a yellow-hooded girl.

“There you are, Phil!” Rowan cried. “Everything all right?”

“Much better, thanks,” I mumbled. I’d been trying not to think of the fool I’d made of myself dashing out of the Great Hall, but the dozens of eyes training themselves on me had clearly not yet forgotten. 

I was suddenly aware, too, of my own gnawing hunger. “Shoot, I’m starving.”

“I thought you might get hungry. Here.” Rowan slipped me a dinner roll, cut down the middle and slathered in butter. “Sorry I didn’t get you any turkey or anything. I wasn’t sure what you like to eat. I’m vegetarian, myself.”

 _Better than nothing_ , I thought, and practically shoved the whole thing in my mouth. Even though it was bland, the roll was impossibly fluffy, and the butter so rich it reminded me of the fancy Irish stuff Mum bought for special occasions. “Thank you,” I mouthed to Rowan, cheeks full of bread.

“All right, ’Puffs!” a stocky girl with a sandy bob called above the din. She spoke with a rough brogue that belied than her unassuming, almost bovine face. “Follow me downstairs, and do watch your step. The stairs can be slippery.” 

Her glance caught mine, and I expected an empathetic nod or a smile. Instead, her eyebrows knit together and she whipped around without so much as acknowledging me. “This way!” she barked.

“You’re going to like Hufflepuff, I think — really,” Rowan chattered vacantly as we descended to a dungeon-looking level below. “Everyone I’ve talked to so far is super nice. I mostly met students in our year, including two boys named Chauncey and Philip (wonder if that will be confusing, a Phil and a Philip); a girl, Marina Sanchez; and a girl named — well, she’s called Nymphadora, but she wants to go by her last name, Tonks. Kind of like how you go by Phil. We all met an older bloke named Murphy, who’s mad about Quidditch and seems _awfully_ bright — a little chatty, though...”

“Uh huh,” I intoned, tuning her out to focus on not tumbling down the stairs, which were slick with… well, I didn’t know what.

“Gee, what do you reckon our Common Room will look like? I’ve only read about the houses’ Common Rooms in _Hogwarts: A History_ , but not even the fiftieth edition had illustrations!” She sighed dreamily. “So many important conversations must have happened in those rooms. Imagine, to be a fly on those walls…” 

I wrinkled my nose, getting a whiff of something mouldy. “Yeah, imagine.”

The prefect led us down an unassuming corridor, towards an earsplitting clanking noise. It sounded like it was coming from a wooden door on the right.

“Is that a machine?” I whispered to Rowan.

“No, those are the kitchens. Sounds like they’re cleaning up.” I was about to ask who “they” were, but our huffy prefect snapped at us to keep moving. We reached a great stack of massive barrels, stopping expectantly in front of them. Rowan and I exchanged confused glances. 

She turned to face us and dropped her voice. “Now, watch closely, ’cos I won’t show you all again.” Her eyes darted suspiciously around the dungeons, then she reached over to rap her knuckles on the barrel to the far right. The two metre–wide door swung open with a great groan, nearly drowned out by our collective gasps. 

“Knock to the rhythm of ‘Helga Hufflepuff,’” she explained. “We change up the barrels every term — and sometimes the nickname, if the Common Room has been breached.” I might have been imagining it, but she shot me a pointed look as she said that last part. “Now, don’t dally.”

We all filed through the door, which led to a low-ceilinged room so warm and inviting that it soothed my nerves almost immediately. Awash in amber light, the room was full of squashy, cozy-looking furniture, impressively plush carpets, and green plants tumbling out of clay pots. A fire sputtered in the hearth across the room, the light winking off copper accents in the room — a plain but tasteful mantelpiece, picture frames, and lamps with low-wattage Edison bulbs. 

We all gaped at the Common Room, but the prefect impatiently ushered us through. “Later. I want to show you all your dormitories.”

“And what’s _her_ problem?” I muttered to Rowan. I must’ve been a tad loud, because I thought I saw the prefect twitch in our direction.

“What do you mean? That’s our prefect, Jane. She introduced herself to all the first years at the House table.”

“I know she’s our prefect, but it doesn’t excuse her being an —”

“ _Alohamora._ Girls, you’re through that door, there.” The circular door closest to the hearth creaked open with an impatient swish of Jane’s wand. “Boys, you’re over here. For both of you, first-year dorms will be at the _end_ of the hall, understood? Then, can I see, erm... Chia... Lobosha?”

A confused silence descended upon the dozen or so of us gathered. Jane repeated the name. I saw someone raise their hand almost imperceptibly, and I shifted to get a better look. It was the girl who’d looked nearly as nervous as Ben at the Sorting. Something about her silvery blonde hair made her look simultaneously too old and too young to be a first year.

Jane nodded in a forced sort of way and beckoned her over. “...Right. Yes. All right, the rest of you start unpacking, then. Your trunks should already be in your rooms. The other prefects and I will be leading rounds of Exploding Snap and Gobstones in the Common Room shortly, but we’ll end _promptly at ten_. Remember, quiet hours in the Common Room start at ten and end at seven. And no going back out into the corridors past nine o’clock!"

“Quiet hours? _Honestly?_ What else did I miss?” I hissed miserably to Rowan.

“Funny, I actually don’t think she told us that.” Rowan adjusted her glasses, which were looking dreadfully smudged. “But good to know.”

I found my eyes raking over the four first-year boys on their way into the dorm. All of them looked thick as thieves already, laughing at some in-joke. Meanwhile, the only Hufflepuff girl I knew, I realized with a start, was Rowan. Panic set in; I wasn’t homesick, no doubt, but all of a sudden I had serious apprehensions about being at Hogwarts to begin with...

 _Wham!_ Right on that thought, I face-planted in the entryway to the girls’ dorm. I didn’t know what was more mortifying: the gasps and nervous laughter from the other girls in the dormitory, or Rowan doting over me and repeatedly asking if I was all right.

“I’m fine,” I huffed, dusting myself off. “What did I trip on, anyway?”

Rowan pointed, and I turned just soon enough to see a writhing root burrowing itself back into the ground. Her and I looked at each other, at a loss for words.

“Did it trip you, too?”

“No.” Rowan shook her head resolutely. “To be honest, I didn’t even see it.”

Now, I was not only anxious but irritated, and getting an eyeful of our room didn’t help one bit. I quickly counted four four-posters spaced out around the circular room.

 _Four?_ My heart sunk. I’d never had to share a room with anyone in my life. Never would I have guessed that I’d go from zero roommates to three. 

All of the girls seemed to be muttering, also chagrined by this news. But it couldn’t have mattered less to Rowan, who flung herself across the room onto the bed nearest to her luggage.

“ _So soft,_ ” she sighed, slightly muffled. Then, rolling over: “C’mon, Phil, try it! Mine’s even warm.”

“Really,” I said dully. I didn’t much like soft mattresses. My trunks were by a four-poster next to Rowan’s, and I got to unpacking.

By the sounds of it, most of the girls had already taken a shine to one another — so much so that some of them were shamelessly _begging_ one of their number to petition Jane to get her bed moved to the other girl’s dorm, just across the hall.

“No, no, it’s really fine, guys. I’ll stay in this one,” the beggee insisted. 

_For chrissakes,_ I thought bitterly, _how well could you really know someone after just one bloody meal together?_ I chanced a glance at them while I was folding my trousers. One of the witches — the one who had just spoken, I wagered — was just the kind of girl that both awed and terrified me in primary school. Blonde. Charismatic. Stunningly pretty. Able to do all sorts of things with her oodles of hair that I couldn’t dream of. Straight, pearly teeth. Thin, well-shaped brows. In short, she was everything I was not.

She must have felt me staring at her, because her eyes flickered over the shoulder of two girls, now dejectedly trucking their bags to the other dorm. They were practically tripping themselves over the blonde girl, and when she trained her eyes on me — or rather, it felt, right through me — I understood why. The slightest suggestion of a smile seemed to play her lips. Then, just as quickly as she’d glanced my way, she wrenched her gaze back towards the other girls and called after them. 

A thunderous belch sounded over my shoulder. I jumped a little and whipped around. Some scrap of a girl with a heart-shaped face and kinky, mousy brown hair was setting up the four-poster next to me. She caught my disgusted glare. “What? Better out than in.”

I didn’t know how to respond, so I busied myself with figuring out wall decorations, since my Ravenclaw pennants were obviously useless. I’d brought a postcard from Victoria Falls, my favourite trip and the last one we’d taken while the family was intact. Looking at them again, I got cold feet about my _Smurfs_ and _Alvin and the Chipmunks_ posters, which seemed suddenly juvenile. Same with the photo Mum took of me and Jacob on his first day of Hogwarts. I didn’t want to draw any more attention to my brother than I already had. 

I’d also packed a small Hogwarts crest tapestry and a Bruce Springsteen poster — a dorm-warming gift from my dad, who avidly followed Muggle bands of no consequence to me. It was more of an anthropological display to me than anything. I put it up the former and tucked the latter back in my bag.

“’Oy!” I whipped around. It was the weird, mousy-haired girl again. She jerked her head at the Springsteen poster. “Nice. I like Muggle music, too. You listen to the Eurythmics?” 

“The what?”

“I’ll show you.” She went rummaging in her suitcase and tugged out a crumpled clump of posters. Most, I noticed enviously, were signed posters from Weird Sisters’ concerts; they were the biggest band in the wizarding world. The eight members thrashed restlessly in each.

“Ah, here.” She pulled out a poster of a high-cheekboned, almost alien-looking woman — at least, I thought it was a woman — with an impossibly short shock of electric orange hair. I felt an indescribable thrill looking at her. She was wearing men’s clothing.

“That’s Annie Lennox,” the girl said, as though anticipating my next question. “Smashing, isn’t she?”

I nodded wordlessly. As I was lost in thought, I noticed the girl start to tense up next to me. Her face was pinched, her arms were trembling, and — _her hair was receding into her head_. I wanted to yell, but my voice was still fried from sobbing earlier. Her hair shrunk in length until it tightly crowned her head like a three-day-old Chia pet, and I watched in shock as it brightened to Lennox’s exact same shade of vibrant orange.

She peeled one eye open. “How’d I do?”

“N-Not bad,” I sputtered. “Not bad at all.”

She grinned and looked at the Eurythmics poster dotingly. “Been practising.” But she didn’t offer me anything more by way of an explanation before hustling over to keep decorating the wall behind her bed.

Rowan sidled over. “ _That’s_ Tonks,” she whispered loudly. “A Metamorphagus. She was trying to copy all of our hairdos at the Welcoming Feast, but she got pooped during Penny Haywood’s.”

“Penny?”

“The pretty witch, over there.” She pointed, not at all surreptitiously, to the magnetic blonde girl, who was followed back into our room by the other four girls in our year. “Some of the older boys already tried to make passes at her. Something icky about that, I think. Right popular already, isn’t she?”

“Yeah,” I said, with all the indifference I could muster.

In time, Penny and her disciples finally left the dormitory to join the games going on in the Common Room, with Tonks — who seemed as though she wouldn’t be sleeping anytime soon — hot on their heels. But Rowan and I clearly had similar work ethics, or at least similar compulsions: We weren’t keen to do anything else until we’d finished unpacking. We’d finished and brushed our teeth by the time the other girls came in for quiet hours, still chattering like squirrels. Tonks came a couple minutes later, seemingly strong-armed to bed by Jane.

“Got a stick up her arse, doesn’t she?” Tonks muttered to me. I privately agreed, but got the sense that Tonks wasn’t the sort of person I ought to ally myself with if I _ever_ wanted to get on Jane’s good side. I pretended to ignore her.

“Good night, Rowan,” I said over my shoulder, clicking out my lamp. She whispered the same back, halfway through a coursebook on her lap. A small, raggedy-looking stuffed lamb was tucked in the crook of her arm.

I turned to the gaggle of girls clustered around Penny’s bed. I hated being the wet blanket, but I was nervous enough about sharing quarters _without_ twice as many girls about, incessantly giggling. “Do you mind keeping it down? I’m going to turn in.”

They all chirped back politely, but kept talking in serpentine whispers that made my skin crawl. _I guess I was naïve to think that Hogwarts isn’t going to be the same old schoolyard rubbish,_ I thought miserably. It took all my restraint not to make for the Ravenclaw Common Room and pound on the door until they let me in.

I sunk into my mattress. All right, all right… It was pretty cozy; I’d give them that. And had they heated the sheets…?

Sleep came for me before I could complete the thought.


	5. Potions Masters, Self-Proclaimed and Otherwise

Ben might have had friends back home in Warwickshire, but he was right about one thing: He sure didn’t have any at Hogwarts. Rowan and I took our blessed extra day before the official start-of-term to explore the castle grounds, and no matter where we wandered, he had an uncanny ability to sniff us out. Then, in Charms — our very first Hogwarts class, which Hufflepuff shared with Gryffindor — he clung to me and Rowan like lichen. 

It irritated me to no end, particularly because I was trying to stand out to Professor Flitwick, the instructor and Ravenclaw Head, lest he miraculously override the Sorting Hat for a last-minute housing swap. Luckily, even Ben couldn’t throw off my focus: Flitwick had scheduled two sessions to teach us Lumos, the wand-lighting charm, but I was able to toss it off by the end of the first class.

“Very impressive, Miss Poe.” Flitwick smiled approvingly. “That’s the best execution of the wand-lighting charm I’ve seen from a first-year in quite some time. Ten points to Hufflepuff.”

Our next two classes went less swimmingly. Our History of Magic course looked as though it was going to be dull beyond belief, taught by a droll ghost who spoke exclusively in monotone, and I got snapped at by Professor Sprout for doodling during her opening Herbology lecture. (Thankfully, she didn’t see I was doodling the Ravenclaw crest, otherwise she might have actually docked points.) 

On our way out of the sticky greenhouse, I alternated between basking in Flitwick’s praise from that morning and griping about Ben’s helplessness. 

“Oh, Phil, he’s not that bad,” Rowan said as we shuffled to Potions. “And Muggle-borns need all the help they can get. Heck, _I’m_ nervous, and I’ve been reading about Hogwarts my whole life!” She stopped in her tracks just before we left the castle. “Wait a second, I need to use the loo first. Come with?”

“No, thanks, I don’t need to go.”

“Doesn’t matter. Let’s go!” She tugged on my sleeve, a habit I was starting to find quite irritating.

I arched a sceptical eyebrow. “Why?”

“Because I’d rather go together than alone,” Rowan said, as though it was obvious. “Pretty please?”

As a compromise, I agreed to wait in the corridor rather than save our spots in Potions. On the way into the loo, Rowan waved. The whole ceremony had the desperate feel of seeing someone off at the airport terminal. 

I sighed in exasperation, then remembered: Rowan had said she hadn’t had friends before Hogwarts. If there was anything primary school taught me, it was that you had to steer clear of the annoying kids at all costs. The alternative was social suicide. But Rowan wouldn’t know to steer clear of an annoying kid if they were... well, staring back at her in the mirror. 

I paced the dungeons. Was I locked into friendships with losers just days into attending Hogwarts? Then again, I wasn’t looking so smooth myself: The roots at the girls’ dorm doorway continued trying to trip me every time I tried to enter. Bizarrely, though, they left me alone whenever I left.

 _Not even my dorm wants me in Hufflepuff,_ I thought glumly, watching as Penny and her friends — Maggie Macmillan, Madeleine Prewett, Marina Sanchez, and Mia Sato, or, as I’d started thinking of them, the four Ms — emerged from the Common Room, all poring over a map of Hogwarts. _Surely I’ve even got my brother beat in the misfit department._

“Admit it!”

An echo down the hall shook me from my stupor. Outside the bathroom, two students were tussling; the aggressor, a Slytherin, seemed to have a Hufflepuff in a headlock. And not just any Hufflepuff...

“I can’t,” came Rowan’s feeble response. It sounded like she was on the verge of tears.

“Say I’m the most powerful witch at Hogwarts!”

I trotted over, close enough to hear Rowan’s stammering, almost apologetic reply. “I-It’s logically impossible, though. You’re less powerful than Professor Sprout, Professor McGonagall, Madam Hooch, Madam Pomfrey, every single seventh-year… You’re just a first-year, like me.”

“I’m _nothing_ like you, you—”

“What’s going on here?” I interjected. The girl whipped around. It was the first-year with the terrible dye job who’d taunted me during the Sorting Hat ceremony. Of course she'd landed in Slytherin.

“In fact, Ph-Phil is the one who should be claiming to be the best witch in our year,” Rowan stammered. “Professor Flitwick said she cast the best Wand-Lighting Charm of any first-year.”

“Did she, then?” The girl cocked an eyebrow. Now, I could hear that she sounded Scottish — and like a massive twat. “Now I know exactly who you are… You’re Philippa Poe. Your brother lost his mind, disgraced his house, got expelled from school, and was never heard from again.” She narrowed her eyes nastily. “You belong in Hufflepuff.”

Rowan scurried to my side. I squared my shoulders. “And who are you?”

 **“** Merula Snyde. But I expect you'll know my name soon enough.” She stuck up her nose. “I overheard the professors whispering about you at the feast, by the way. I suppose you think you’re better than me. I ought to put you in your place before you ruin Hogwarts like your brother tried to.”

I scoffed. “Sounds to me like you’re just afraid I’m better at magic than you.”

 **“** Let’s find out who’s the better witch right now!” Merula growled. She drew her wand; I reflexively did the same. We were pacing apart from each other when I felt a tug on the back of my robes, nearly knocking me off my feet.

“ _Poe_ ,” a withering voice spat from behind me. “I knew you would be trouble.”

 **“** Professor Snape!” Merula gasped, shoving her wand away.

I wheeled around. Snape had looked so austere in the Great Hall, but up close, I could see that the pallid, ghoulish potions master was gangly as a teenage boy. And yet, the lines bookending his frown and etched between his brows looked prematurely deep, as though the product of a years-long scowl. 

“Do you have anything to say for yourself?” 

I squirmed. “Merula was bullying my friend, Professor.”

He released the back of my hood. “Get to Potions Class. And be thankful you aren’t headed to detention.”

He drifted away, and Merula shot me one last glare before trotting after him like a puppy. Surely she had a lot of arse-kissing to do — Snape was her Head of House. I straightened my robes, and we followed them a few paces behind. 

“Thanks for standing up for me, Phil.” Rowan bit her lip a little sheepishly. Then, as though trying to read my mind: “Truthfully, I’m still a little sad to be in Hufflepuff. But I’m glad that you and I are both in the same house.”

Of course, I felt the same way, but I didn’t want to admit to what extent. I changed the subject. “Did you hear what Merula said? Why would the professors be talking about me?”

“I don’t know, but let’s talk about it after class. We’re in enough trouble as it is.” 

Snape shut the door just after us, and we hurried to the two remaining seats. My heart plummeted, and I felt Rowan freeze up next to me, too. The only remaining seats in the class were right next to Merula Snyde. We exchanged wary looks.

“Well, all, this is your first Potions class —” Snape began haltingly, still clearly rankled by Merula and I’s tiff. He turned around, and his dark eyes raked over our faces. “Poe and Khanna, if your bewildered looks are any indication, it could be your last. Sit down.”

Some Slytherins snickered, Merula loudest of all. We resignedly slumped into the two empty seats.

“Unlike other classes, this won’t be a place for foolish wand-waving, and intolerable screeching of mispronounced incantations.” Penny Haywood audibly giggled, as though Snape had said something quite clever; no one else laughed.

“You are here to learn the subtle science and precise art of potion-making. Ensnare the senses. Bewitch the mind. Keep mouths —” He rapped on the table that included Tonks and Marina, who, whispering, both jumped — “ _shut_.”

“He’s so pompous… _Ow!_ ” I’d mumbled to Rowan, but she kicked me under the table. Merula whipped around and narrowed her eyes. Rubbing my shin, I took Rowan's point: Best not to gossip about Merula’s Head of House with her in earshot.

“We will not tarry in this class. We begin brewing today, starting with a simple Cure for Boils.” He stood behind his desk at the front; instructions and an ingredients list began to appear on the chalkboard behind him, to excited tittering. “The day will come all too soon when you will find yourselves groveling for such a cure. You may well be prepared. Know that I expect perfection, and there will be severe consequences for failing to meet my expectations.” 

Snape’s eyes snapped back to me and Rowan. We gulped, and the classroom slowly began to stir. 

“I guess we’re off, then,” I said, finding my voice.

“Poe, did you see the way Snape was looking at you?” It was Merula, of course. “Sounds like you’re already destined to fail.”

I ignored her, cheeks burning, but I could feel Merula’s gaze boring into me while I crushed snake fangs in a mortar. She glared at me for what felt like eons until she scoffed and turned back to her cauldron. 

A few moments later, I chanced a look at Rowan that asked, _Did you catch all that?_ Rowan didn’t return my gaze fully, but her hands were trembling as she sprinkled crushed snake fangs into her cauldron. 

“Ignore her, Phil. After everything Snape said, we really do need to brew this potion perfectly.”

I could tell she was upset. So was I. I smashed my snake fangs to powder before I knew it.

Rowan and I stumbled our way through the Cure for Boils, which we found far from “simple.” Even so, by the time I added porcupine quills to my cauldron, my potion looked quite like what Snape described — viscous, reddish, and letting off a pungent pink vapour. I didn’t need to look too far beyond my table to see that few others had done the same, though I noticed that Penny had also achieved the telltale rosy plume.

Snape stopped beside my cauldron appraisingly. “Hmm. Perhaps you aren’t absolutely incompetent, Poe.”

“Erm, thank you, Professor.” I tried to contain my glee until he had walked away, then shot Merula a smug look. Her cheeks flared. 

“Laugh all you want, Poe,” she grumbled.

“Wow!” Rowan adjusted her glasses, which had fogged up from peering in my cauldron. “Hardly anyone's brewed this potion correctly on their first try — oh, shoot, my horned slugs!”

Rowan’s pitcher suddenly sloshed over the side of the table. A couple slugs hit the dungeon floor with a nauseating splat. Rowan ducked to clean them up; I helped her.

“Ugh. Some got on my stockings.” I wrinkled my nose.

“So sorry, Phil…”

“It’s OK. If I get these wretched things dirty enough, maybe I can get out of wearing them.” 

Wait. I sniffed the air. The sharp, saline smell of my cauldron had turned acrid and tar-like. I leaned over. My potion, which had been bubbling placidly a moment ago, was starting to churn and drain itself of colour.

“Wait. Rowan, what’s happening?”

She gasped. “Did you add Bulbadox Powder? That’s exactly how the textbook described —”

There was an ear-shattering crash, and I flung my arms in front of my face to shield it from getting sprayed. Shards of cauldron and hot slop flew everywhere. 

Almost more deafening than the explosion was the silence that followed. The laughter came later than I expected, but it came, all right — mostly, but not exclusively, from the Slytherins.

“Congratulations! You cured the table of boils,” Merula said between hoots. 

Tears stung my eyes, but my exposed forearms stung more. Was I having a reaction to the botched potion? Thank goodness the recipe had called for pulling the cauldron off the flame to cool in the second half, otherwise I might have been nursing burns in addition to who knew what else. 

Snape swept over, looking vampiric. “What happened here?”

“I-I don’t know,” I stammered. “The potion got on my arms…”

A clammy, snake-like hand snatched my wrist and examined my left forearm. “An injury of no consequence — this time.” Snape glared at me, dropping my hand in disgust. “You should have never been allowed inside my classroom, Poe.”

His words stung so much that I opened my mouth reflexively. “Merula sabotaged me!” I sputtered. “I think she did something to my cauldron when I wasn’t looking.”

Snape’s lip curled, but his eyes darted briefly to Merula, who was innocently twiddling her thumbs. Bizarrely, she was completely dry, despite being nearly as close to the cauldron as I. 

“Just take responsibility for your incompetence, Poe,” Snape ordered through gritted teeth.

“I would, if she hadn’t threatened me and… and my friend before class.” My hands were shaking from anger and anxiety; in the moment, I even blanked on Rowan’s name. When Snape stared at me coolly, I kept pressing. “She’s insecure because she thinks I’m better at magic than her.”

It wasn't until the words left my lips that I realised my explanation made me sound like a total git. The class twittered. 

Snape narrowed his eyes and turned to Merula, condescension dripping from his voice: “Is this true, Miss Snyde?”

“No, Professor. I wager Poe’s just as mad as her brother.” 

An angry retort singed the tip of my tongue, but I found I had all but lost my voice. I was visibly teary-eyed now. I stared at my forearms, still reddish and tingling.

After Merula’s words hung in the air for what felt like an eternity, Snape finally spoke. His words, I was relieved to hear, had an edge to them.

“Your family has represented Slytherin well, Miss Snyde. I will be watching you closely to ensure you do the same.”

But my hopes were shot down soon enough. “Now, you, on the other hand, Miss Poe, have been nothing but trouble since you entered Hogwarts — just like your brother. The only difference are the robes.” He looked me up and down. I couldn’t imagine my cheeks getting any hotter, and yet…

“Ten points from Hufflepuff.”

I found my voice again when Snape dismissed the class and students started to shuffle out of the classroom. “ _Ten points?_ That’s not fair!”

“It’s only going to get worse for you, Poe. After all,” Merula said, slinging her bag over her shoulder, “you should have known Bulbadox Powder would make your cauldron explode.” She smiled sourly and turned on her heel.

I sunk my head into my arms. I worried I’d snap if Rowan tried to grab my sleeve or start yammering again. 

Luckily, she seemed to get the picture. “Hey, I’ll meet you in the Common Room, OK? I’ll try to explain everything to Jane, too.”

I nodded. I waited a few minutes until I simmered down, then swept out the door without acknowledging Snape, who returned the favour. But I hesitated before heading to the barrels. Truthfully, the Hufflepuff Common Room was the last place I wanted to be after what had just happened. Then again, those armchairs did look awfully inviting…

“Hey, Philippa…” I turned around. Ben Copper wasn’t exactly the person I wanted to talk to right now, either.

“It’s Phil, remember? What do you want?”

He flinched. “I, uh, just wanted to thank you.”

I cocked an eyebrow. “For what?”

“For standing up to Merula Snyde. I was following her in the hallway before she sprung on Rowan.” I must have looked bewildered enough to warrant an explanation. “She does the same stuff to me. Following her is the only way I have a chance to run away.”

“God, _what_ is her problem?” I fumed. “Why does she pick on you, Ben?” _Besides the obvious_.

“I dunno. She hassled me the entire way here on the Hogwarts Express — threatening me, calling me a ‘Mudblood,’ whatever that means…”

Now it was my turn to flinch. “My mum and dad told me to never, ever use that word. It’s a really vile thing to say about someone who’s Muggle-born. You know, from a non-magical family.”

Ben deflated. “So — me, then.”

“I’m sorry, Ben.” Truthfully, his bullying at Merula’s hands put everything in perspective. I told him everything that had just happened in Potions class, and found I even felt a tiny bit better at the end of it. He seemed to, too.

When I finished, Ben shook his head, almost sadly. “Merula is obsessed with being the best witch in our year, and she’ll do whatever it takes to prove it. I’m just glad someone was brave enough to stand up to her at all.” He scoffed bitterly. “I certainly couldn’t. It’s a joke I got put in Gryffindor.”

“Tell me about it. I was never an unlucky person before, but it’s almost like _being_ in Hufflepuff has me cursed.”

That reminded me: My prefects probably wanted to see me about the House points I’d just lost. “Sorry, I’d better go. Speaking of cursed, I think I’m in trouble with my House.”

Ben seemed to go a couple shades paler at the very notion. “Oh… B-Best of luck, then.”

“Cheers,” I said darkly.

I tapped out the password and entered. Surely enough, Jane made a beeline for me the moment I set foot in the Common Room. Every bit of skin I could see on her was flushed.

“You already lost Hufflepuff ten points? On the _first day of classes?_ ” she said incredulously. “That puts us in fourth place! What happened?”

“Jane, I know we haven’t met yet.” I stuck out my hand clumsily but diplomatically. “I’m Philippa Poe —”

“Oh, I know who you are,” she all but spat. “Considering what your brother thought of Hufflepuff House, I should have kept a closer eye on you.”

 _My brother and Hufflepuff?_ “What are you talking about?” 

Jane crossed her arms. “Always harassing our students… Sneaking into the Common Room… And looks like superiority complexes run in the family, seeing as you haven’t apologised yet.”

I couldn’t believe my ears. My brother, a bully? The Jacob I knew would do no such thing.

“No way,” I scoffed defensively.

Jane’s eyebrows shot to her hairline, her voice slow and deliberate. “ _No, you won’t apologise?_ ”

“No— I mean, yes— I mean...” I got flustered. Rowan, who was standing behind her, was watching me in wide-eyed horror and shaking her head. “Jacob isn’t that way, I swear. But even if he’s like you say he is, well… I’m not my brother, am I?”

I peered up at Jane through my fringe. She still looked like a kettle fit to boil over. But just as suddenly, her blotchy skin cleared up, and she looked cool as a cucumber.

“...All right, then. Well, I would have tried to talk to Snape myself to clear all this up myself, but looks like he’s already sent a letter to our Common Room.”

I furrowed my brow. “I was out in the hallway a moment ago, and class just ended. Why didn’t he pass along his message then?”

“Probably because he despises you,” Jane said matter-of-factly, handing me the envelope. “Don’t take it personally. Snape hates everyone. But do read that letter straightaway.”

I unfolded it. Snape had a surprisingly childlike scrawl, almost like a spider’s cursive. 

> _Poe —_
> 
> _I_ _have discovered evidence that your potion may have indeed been tampered with. While it does not prove your innocence, it does cast some doubt on my belief that you are hopelessly incompetent_.

Rowan, who had moved closer to eavesdrop, exclaimed, “All right, Phil!”

“There’s more."

> _Bring me some pickled slugs from the Potions storeroom and I will consider restoring your house points._
> 
> _Snape._

Below the looping writing were hand-drawn directions to the storeroom, which I showed to Rowan.

“Quite helpful of him. Want me to go with you? It’s the least I can do after you saved me from Merula.”

“That’d be great. You know your way around the castle better already.”

Meanwhile, Jane was positively twitchy with anticipation. “Snape never does this. Hurry, before he changes his mind!”

We shuffled out. Rowan was back to her usually chatty mood, uninhibited by our speed-walking.

“Says the Potions storeroom is this way… But funny thing is, the Hogwarts map I’ve studied says it’s in the Tapestry Corridor… Suppose there must be more than one, then,” she panted.

“S’pose so.”

We skidded to a stop in front of the room.

“Is this it, then?” Rowan asked. 

“Must be. Remember, we need one jar of pickled slugs…” Rowan and I stepped inside. It was pitch black.

“I can’t see a thing.” _Click_. “Why’d you shut the door, Rowan? Now I _really_ can’t see…”

“I didn’t! It closed behind me as soon as I stepped inside.” I heard her jimmy the handle. “And I think it’s locked… Cast the wand-lighting charm to double-check?”

I flicked my wand and prayed I’d get the charm right. “ _Lumos!_ ”

Thankfully, my wand tip lit up on the first try. Rowan tried the door a few times, but I got distracted by movement out of the corner of my eye. I turned to see a mass of writhing… roots, vines, something. I just hoped they weren’t snakes.

“Wh-what’s that?” I breathed, fighting to keep the fear from my voice.

Rowan froze next to me. “That’s Devil’s Snare. Some fourth-year Slytherins showed it to me when I first arrived. It can be…” Her voice faltered. “...deadly.”

“It’s sensitive to light,” a familiar, baleful voice called from the other side of the door. “So, if you’re really the best at the Wand-Lighting Charm, you should have no problem escaping, right?”

“Merula?” I pounded on the door. “ _You_ locked us in here?”

“ _And_ sent you the fake letter from Snape,” she added gloatingly, as though unable to stop herself. “I told you things were only going to get worse for you, Poe. You should have never blamed me in front of the class.” The door lurched; Merula seemed to have given it a kick or a shove. “But maybe Devil’s Snare can stop you from ruining Hogwarts for me and everyone else.”

I couldn’t hear anything else Merula said after that. A vine lashed out and grabbed the wrist of my wand arm. I tried to resist, but in response, the plant just grabbed all of me, hoisting me off the ground by the waist and dangling me aloft.

“Merula is right about Devil’s Snare being sensitive to light,” Rowan said. “You keep using Lumos to hold it off, and I’ll try to get us help!”

I did everything I could to resist the Snare’s attempts to grab my wand as Rowan screamed and pounded on the door. I noticed that the vines shrunk back the closer my wand tip got to them; by rolling my wrist, I was able to free my hand, then get the Devil’s Snare to drop me. I landed heavily on my back, and for a terrifying moment I couldn’t breathe. This must be what people meant when they talked about getting the wind knocked out of them.

Taking advantage of the fact that I was stunned for a moment, the Devil’s Snare dangled me by the ankle. My stomach lurched sickeningly into my throat. I felt like I was going to lose my lunch.

“Keep on doing what you were earlier,” Rowan cried over her shoulder. “I think I hear someone coming!”

I steeled myself and tried to hoist my torso up, as though trying to touch my toes in mid-air. After some straining, I waved my wand close enough to the vine clutching my feet that it dropped me, even more unceremoniously than before. This time, I _really_ hurt my back, enough that I doubted I’d be able to stand anytime soon.

Luckily, right on cue, someone kicked down the door and a huge shape appeared in the doorway. Even through heavy-lidded eyes I knew it was Hagrid, the groundskeeper. No one else at Hogwarts was quite that large.

“Gulpin’ gargoyles, Hufflepuff! Get away from that Devil’s Snare, yer scarin’ it!”

I felt so indignant that I was now numb all over. This was the most trouble I’d gotten into in my entire life. And if even _Hagrid_ gave me an earful today, for something that, once again, wasn’t my fault…

But his voice seemed to soften when he saw the state I was in. “Le’s getcha out of here… Tha’s better…” He hoisted me away by the armpits with two massive arms; I kept a vice grip on my wand all the while. 

Hagrid dragged me to safety out in the hall. Dazed, my head bobbed limply against the stone wall. My lower back was throbbing, aching…

“Now, who are yeh? Should we getcha to the infirmary?”

“Philippa Poe,” I said raggedly. “I-I don’t know.”

“Ah, yer the one everyone’s been talking about. Maybe trouble really does run in yer family.” He examined my robes, which were now noticeably torn. “How’d yeh end up in there, Philippa?”

Thankfully, Rowan spoke on my behalf. “A first-year Slytherin named Merula Snyde tricked us and locked us inside. She forged a note from Snape and everything.”

“She did?” Hagrid looked very seriously at the two of us. “Yer both lucky to be alive. Devil’s Snare _hates_ light. That’s why Hogwarts’s lives in there.” 

Rowan and I traded appalled looks. Sensitive to light, indeed. Merula had tricked us into aggravating it. 

“I’m sorry, Hagrid,” Rowan said solemnly. “We didn’t know.”

“Jus’ glad yer alive, really. My question is, what are the two of yeh to do about Merula?”

Rowan gaped wordlessly. Obviously, she hadn’t thought ahead far enough to begin to consider next steps. I, on the other hand, was already spinning them through my mind.

“I’ll tell everyone in our year what she did so she can’t be trusted,” I wheezed through gritted teeth. “I already know she’s after other students, too. Merula's a bully.”

“But do yeh have any proof?” 

I faltered. “Well… besides the letter she faked, none, really.”

Hagrid harrumphed. “Slytherins are good about coverin’ their tracks, if I do say so meself. But fer now, you’d better head back to yer Common Room and rest.” He patted me on the shoulder; I cringed. “Now, are you sure yer feelin’ OK? Madam Pomfrey is a very talented Healer. Fixed me up loads’er times.”

I knew I should have relented and headed to the Infirmary, but my pride prevented me from saying so. It had been a long enough day as it is, and my plush dorm bed sounded vastly preferable to a hard medical cot. “I’m all right, thanks.”

“Yeh might also want to do something about those robes. The Devil’s Snare got yeh good.”

I nodded, and both he and Rowan helped me up. The hallway swam before my eyes. I hoped my face didn’t betray the pain I was in as I hobbled to the Common Room threshold, supported by Rowan and Hagrid and then, upon entering the Common Room, just Rowan.

Jane was already upon us by the time the barrel-top swung shut. “Bloody hell! What happened to your robes?”

“Devil’s Snare,” I said, wincing. 

“What? How? Did that happen with Professor Snape?”

“It was a trick,” Rowan piped up, helping me sit down. “Merula Snyde faked the note, then trapped us with the Devil’s Snare.”

“Merula… Snyde?” A flicker of recognition flashed across Jane’s face, which was quite at odds with the next words out of her mouth: “Who’s that?

“A twat,” I mumbled — a little too audibly, based on Rowan and Jane’s expressions. 

“A first-year Slytherin,” Rowan filled in, helpfully. “She hates Philippa for some reason.”

Jane leered at me from the corner of her eye. “I won’t take House points away for bad language since we’re already depressingly behind. Not this time."

"You cussed too," I grumbled, which she ignored. My lower back was screaming for mercy. I needed to lie down.

“I’m gonna go,” I said, gesturing to the dormitory. “I’ve got to get better in time for flying class tomorrow.”

“I’ll save you some supper. Now, you’re _absolutely positive_ you don’t want to see Madam Pomfrey?” Rowan asked.

“Positive,” I said firmly. “See you.”

I limped to the dorm, voices swirling around my head. _I overheard the professors whispering about you at the feast... Your brother lost his mind, disgraced his house... Always harassing our students, sneaking into the Common Room…_ _You’re somehow even worse than your brother..._

_Wham!_

I cursed. Of course, I completely forgot about the root booby trap on my way in. I splayed on the floor, my back erupting in pain again. I gave myself a few miserable moments to lie there, cheek against the cool earthen floor. What a disaster the next seven years were going to be.

“You all right?”

I looked up with a jolt to see Penny Haywood’s round blue eyes blinking at me. She was sticking her head out of our room, braiding her hair.

“Fine,” I breathed, trying to shuffle myself to my feet as though everything was fine. It didn’t look like I’d convinced her, but she seemed to decide, almost pityingly, not to press the matter.

Penny surveyed my ripped robes, but mercifully didn't comment. “The dorm really doesn’t like you much, does it?”

“The dorm? Yeah… Guess not.” _At least those roots and I both agree I shouldn’t be in bloody Hufflepuff_ , I thought savagely.

“It’s funny. My mum tells me those roots are only supposed to keep boys out. The enchantment must be going wonky or something.”

 _Keep boys out?_ And did Penny know this about the Hufflepuff dorms already, or had she been talking to her mum about me? Of course, that would require her to pay attention to me for more than two seconds — though my debacle in Potions class alone probably gave her more than enough to write home about...

I opened my mouth, choosing between a dozen and a half things to say to her, but bafflingly, what ended up coming out was: “I’m probably going to bed early, just so you know. Are you staying in here, or…?”

Penny looked away self-consciously. “Oh. No, I’m headed to dinner. Sorry about that. I’ll tell the rest to come in quietly.”

“Thanks,” I said, more gruffly than I’d meant.

Penny turned around to leave, and I felt like howling again, not from pain but humiliation. With a heavy sigh, I flopped on my bed. At first the plush mattress felt heavenly, then I felt my back begin to twinge all over again. I tossed and turned. What I really needed was a firm mattress. I sighed. Perhaps I should have gone to see Madam Pomfrey, in the end.

Bit by bit, I felt the mattress harden right under my spine, the heat then changing to a silky cool. The pain lessened, mercifully.

I looked around in disbelief and pushed down on another section of mattress with my open palm. Yup, totally firm. The beds were probably enchanted to fit the sleeper’s preferences. 

After several minutes, I felt the cool change back to heat again, cycling to and fro every quarter hour or so. I sighed deeply. My back was already throbbing less.

I clung to this small, minuscule comfort as I drifted into a slumber less fitful than expected.


	6. Fears and Foes

I slept for what felt like hours. Rowan told me I was out cold by the time she smuggled me some chips and mincemeat pie, so Tonks had wolfed it down instead. 

“We’ve got some time before flying class at nine. Wanna get breakfast and sneak a quick game of Gobstones?”

“If you’re willing to teach me,” I said, fastening up some fresh robes. I’d had to toss the ones that crossed Devil’s Snare. “Mum never bought us a set. She was afraid we’d stink up the house. Say, what’s in Gobstones, anyway?” 

“No one knows, but she’s right about one thing: It smells awful! Oh, also —” She pulled something out of her robes. “I nearly forgot. Ben Copper wanted me to give this to you. He gave it to me at supper.”

It was a folded-up note:

> _Dear Phil_ ~~ _ippa_ ~~ _,_
> 
> _I have a problem. And yes, I have a lot of problems. But this one is new. Can you meet me for breakfast?_
> 
> _Sincerely_
> 
> _Ben_
> 
> _P.S. Alone, please._

I pocketed it. “Are we sure this is from Ben? What if it’s Merula again?”

“Good point. But I think he’s asking to meet in the Great Hall, which is pretty crowded. I can still go with you if you want backup…”

I peered down at the paper. “He said I should talk to him alone.”

Rowan frowned. “Well, I’ll still try to keep a lookout. I hope everything’s OK.”

We entered the Great Hall. I was scanning the Gryffindor table for Ben when Rowan tugged on my sleeve and pointed. He was already sitting at the very end of the Hufflepuff table, closest to the staff table. Even from a distance, he appeared to be shrinking in on himself.

“Well… I’ll catch up to you after breakfast, then?”

“Yup,” Rowan headed to sit down. “I’ll sit where I can see you. Good luck!”

I walked up to Ben, who hadn’t touched much of the food on his plate. “Erm, hey."

He jumped in his seat. “Oh, Phil, it’s just you. Thanks for coming. I just want to ask you something.” He looked around, dropping his voice. “By the way, Merula still won’t leave me alone. I figured putting some space between us by sitting at the Hufflepuff table might help, but some fifth-years have been shooting me looks…”

“Fifth-year boys are apes, the whole lot. Don’t mind them,” I said, reaching for a sausage and some toast. “Is something wrong, then?”

Ben sighed. “Flying class is today. I’ve been dreading that class for months.”

“Oh. Well, loads of people are afraid of heights.” 

“I’m less afraid of heights than I am falling from them,” Ben said, almost sardonically. “I mean, I told you I come from a— a _Muggle_ family. The idea of flying through the sky on a broom sounds bonkers.”

“Believe it or not, I’ve never flown on a broom, either. My mum was pretty strict about us using magic outside of school.” At the thought of this, my stomach lurched a little. I was keenly aware, for the first time that morning, of how much and how quickly I was eating. I set down my fork. Then, to persuade Ben as much as myself: “There’s no reason to be worried, really. Everyone says the flying instructor, Madam Hooch, is an excellent teacher. That’s what my brother always told me, and he’s not the most coordinated bloke himself.”

“Have you _seen_ Madam Hooch, though? I’m going to have nightmares about those eyes.” Ben shuddered. Truthfully, I hadn’t gotten close enough to Hooch to know what he was talking about, so I shrugged it off. 

Ben and I chewed noncommittally for a few minutes. “Phil,” Ben started, “you really aren’t afraid of flying?”

I swallowed; my rye toast formed a dry lump in my throat. I wanted more than anything to put on a brave face for everyone, but that felt wrong when it came to someone who was Muggle-born. I couldn’t keep sugarcoating the magical world forever. 

“I’m excited,” I said, “but also a little worried. It’s only natural to be nervous before flying for the first time, I bet.”

Ben sat up a little straighter. Then, a bark from near the staff table deflated him again. “You down there! Enough chatter.” It came from a woman I recognized as Madam Hooch herself. 

“She’s talking to us!” Ben sputtered. “Do you think she read our lips with her— with her—”

“No, I heard your whiny whimpering from clear across the room.” She walked briskly towards us. Now that she was close enough, I could see what it was Ben was afraid of: She had piercing, almost hawkish yellow eyes. “Class begins soon. I expect to see you both on the training grounds.”

Ben’s eyes looked like saucers. "What, does she figure we'll skip? I hadn't thought of that, but now that she mentions it..."

I shot him an admonishing look. “Ben, I’d better you then.” I pushed myself up from the table and left him with my unintentional rhyme. 

“How’d it go?” Rowan asked the moment we left the Great Hall.

“Anticlimactic,” I responded. “It wasn't anything, really. Ben is just afraid of flying.”

“Me too,” Rowan said with a shudder. “Gobstones, then?”

I was taken aback for a moment, admiring and envying how she copped to her fear so readily. “Yeah, yeah... of course.”

We plopped ourselves down cross-legged in the sunny courtyard. It was a gorgeous day — perfect conditions for flying, really. I hated how this thought was enough to tie another knot in my stomach.

“Say, Phil, I actually wanted to talk to you about something, too.” Rowan tried to bewitch a piece of chalk as she spoke. She managed to float it — quite a feat — but instead of drawing a circle on the courtyard tiles, it trembled mightily and stayed put.

“Are you ever… er…” She snatched the chalk from midair and drew the arena manually. “Do you miss home?”

I blinked. As miserable as I’d been the past three days, I hadn’t once considered going home. That wasn’t surprising, exactly, but the realization made me feel a touch sad. “Um… Not really. How come?” 

Rowan made the first move, flicking a Gobstone into the arena. It was a good first play: she sent two of mine flying.

“I’m feeling a little homesick.”

“Did you like home, then?” I asked.

Rowan’s eyes lit up as though by _Lumos_. “Yeah. Our farm is really beautiful. It’s out in the countryside, with all these green, sloping hills. It’s perfect for birdwatching, and the bowtruckles like it, too. It’s a little boring, sometimes, but whenever I get bored I remind myself I’m not looking hard enough for something to do.”

I quite enjoyed listening to Rowan talk about home. It reminded me of the Berkshires, where we'd lived in America and where Dad was, now. I thought it was one of the most beautiful places in the whole world. In our last letters before I came to Hogwarts, I’d asked Dad to send me photographs of my favourite vista on the Taconic Ridge Trail, where he used to take us hiking. But he only sent the still, boring, Muggle kind, which didn't do it justice. Watching the fog roll over the ridge was the best part.

I took my turn; it was rubbish. “What did you do at the farm? Like, for fun?”

“Oh, lots of things. I’d read, of course, and play with my cat Fuzzclaw. Plus, my brother and sister and I would play tag, hide and seek, Marco Polo…” Rowan smiled dreamily. “We also climbed trees, though my siblings sometimes would go too high.” Rowan giggled as I looked at her knowingly. “And me too, I guess.”

“Well, to answer your question from earlier, I don’t miss home ’cause Canterbury isn’t that nice,” I said a little more bitterly. “With my parents split up, and Jacob gone, my mum has gone off her rocker. She checks on me every minute and keeps wanting to—” _Read my fortune._ I stopped myself before I could finish the sentence. Rowan’s brilliance intimidated me; I wasn’t ready for her to know my mom believed in Divination, not yet. I cleared my throat. “Keeps wanting to make sure I’m doing my homework.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” Rowan’s response was a little flat, as though she now felt guilty for sharing some of her life with me. I shifted uncomfortably; that hadn’t been my intent, but I didn’t know, now, how to smooth things over. 

With an almost lazy flick, Rowan won the game, and I got sprayed. I laughed despite myself — I’d seen this coming. Rowan smiled as wide as ever, but something about it seemed hollow. I supposed she was probably still terribly homesick. No Gobstones win could solve that.

“Some people think Gobstones isn’t cool, but I personally consider it the thinking wizard’s Quidditch. Perfect for two weirdos like us.” Rowan rearranged the stones. “Time for one more?”

I was about to answer when beat-looking, high-topped sneakers trod up next to us. Even before I looked up to see who they belonged to, an instinctual flare of rage sparked in my gut. 

“Well, isn’t this precious?” Merula looked down at us, a sickening smirk on her face. “Did both of you tell the Devil’s Snare I said hello?”

Rowan and I traded wounded looks. I wanted to hold my ground in front of Merula, but even the mere mention of Devil’s Snare flipped my stomach and prickled my spine. My eyes idly searched for a marble to lob at her. _All’s fair in love and Gobstones._

“No, then? Well, Poe, while you were off playing with plants, I did a little research about your brother.” 

I gripped the Gobstone I was holding so tightly it seemed fit to burst. “Don’t, Merula.”

“Why do you keep harassing Phil so much?” Rowan said.

Merula rounded on her. “Because she’s a danger to Hogwarts, like _him!_ We won’t be safe until she’s gone.”

Rowan chanced a glance at me. “What are you talking about?” 

“Poe’s brother didn’t just get expelled for putting the entire school in danger in search of some imaginary vaults.” Merula’s cruel smile twisted more. “He went missing, and the next time he was seen, _he was working for Lord Voldemort._ ”

I can’t quite remember what happened next. My ears and eyes were swimming, and I was vaguely aware of Merula and Rowan bickering about something. 

_Become a Death Eater? No… Impossible… Jacob would never..._

Merula turned on me and said something I couldn’t hear over the deafening roar in my ears.

“What?”

“I said, _they’re_ wondering if you work for the Dark Lord, too,” she said, rounding on me. 

“Who’s wondering?”

“All the professors. I heard them talking about it at the start-of-term feast.” Her eyes glittered. “You might have heard them yourself if you hadn’t run out sniveling.”

“ _Liar!_ ” I roared, leaping to my feet. 

“Oh, this is rich!” Merula drew her wand. “Go on, then, Poe, cast the first spell. I dare you.”

“Phil, don’t—” Rowan begged.

“ _Lumos!_ ” The tip of my wand feebly illuminated, then sputtered out. 

Merula didn’t even flinch. “Pathetic. _Flipendo!”_

My legs were theatrically knocked out from under me, as though by a great invisible gust. I cringed. My back had been feeling much better, but yesterday’s pain came throbbing back the moment my tailbone slammed against the cobblestones.

“Khanna, what was that you called Poe? _Flip?_ I might steal that. It’s one of the more brilliant things you’ve said, which isn’t saying much. ” 

“Maybe if you had friends, people would laugh at your stupid jokes,” I spat.

“Maybe if _you_ learned a few more spells, you’d actually put up a fight.”

Rowan waited until Merula strode out of eyeshot before helping me up. “She’s never going to let us alone, is she?” 

“Not unless I learn more spells.” I bit my lip to keep from crying as I stood up.

“Oh, come on, Phil. She’s trying to bait you into breaking more rules. Isn’t it obvious?”

“Still, more spells can’t hurt.” I dusted off my robes and followed a small throng of first-year Ravenclaws towards the Training Grounds. “Let’s just hope we don’t have to use them any time soon.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> North Adams, Mass. is one of my favorite places in the world, and the Taconic Ridge Trail (near Mt. Greylock, where Ilvermorny is in Rowling's canon) is glorious. Both influence my descriptions of Phil's American upbringing. 
> 
> That being said, I won't pretend to have grown up in the upper Berkshires in the '70s/'80s... Again, appreciate any fact-checking on this front!


	7. The Vision

Ben and I needn’t have panicked: That first Flying class just involved summoning our brooms. Unfortunately, that simple task was much harder than it looked. My predilection in Charms didn’t exactly extend to this class, either, seeing as my broom did little more than wiggle in the grass the entire session. 

Our entire first-year class had pretty rotten luck. Merula even got smacked in the face by her broom; I laughed a little too loudly, while Rowan tactfully pretended to sneeze to stifle her cackle in her sleeve. 

Being on the same miserable page as my classmates for the first time in my life actually bred a delightful camaraderie. In primary school I was the target of all manner of barbed, envious remarks, but this time, I joined the throng in slinging glares at a Ravenclaw boy who summoned his broom on the third or fourth try. It sprung eagerly into his hand another half-dozen times; even sharp-tongued Madam Hooch couldn’t pretend to conceal her delight. 

“He’s _got_ to have flown before. No other explanation,” I mused bitterly as he strode after his mates, purple scarf fluttering behind him. “You know, he looks familiar…”

“He was shopping in Diagon Alley the same day as us,” Rowan supplied. “My dad chatted with him about his Pride of Portree scarf. They’re big rivals of his favourite team, so he ribbed that boy and his family a bit. It was sort of awkward. They weren’t too charmed by that, I think.”

“Sounds snotty. Apple must not fall far from the tree.”

Rowan and I noticed her at the same time: Jane Court, waiting expectantly at the edge of the Training Grounds. She pretended to be reading a paperback, but the way her eyes darted up every few seconds made it clear she wasn’t just doing some light reading. Some Hufflepuffs in our class waved nervously; she didn’t acknowledge them. Once we got closer, she snapped her book shut and stood.

“Khanna. Poe. I’d like a word.”

 _You’ve got to be kidding me._ “Yes?” I said, barely managing to drain my voice of hostility.

She waited until the last of the students trudged back towards the castle. “I saw what happened in the Courtyard, with Merula.”

“You’ve been spying on us?” I blurted.

“You sound like a paranoid lunatic, Poe. No. I was heading to the Owlery when I saw you eat it,” she said flatly. “And I wasn’t the only one. I don’t know if you’ve gathered this much from your brother’s _misadventures_ , but word travels fast around here.”

I glanced at Rowan and felt a stab of remorse. Rowan had been there, too, but she was nothing more than a bystander. Surely, Jane figured out that much. If Rowan took the fall, too…

“The way I see it, I wouldn’t be doing my job as Prefect if I didn’t help you lot defend yourself,” Jane said silkily. She leaned in. “I’m going to teach you how to duel.”

Rowan’s eyes bugged out of her head. Had we heard her wrong?

“Let me explain, but don’t breathe a word of it to another house. Suffice to say Hufflepuff has been target to a fair share of thugs over the years at Hogwarts.” I didn’t love that she solely addressed Rowan as she spoke, only glancing at me on the word _thugs_. “The House keeps a secret duelling manual in the Artefact Room. It will teach you everything you need to know — spells, potions, techniques. Read it cover to cover, and do it quickly, before your courseload piles up. Understand me?”

“OK, OK. But why? I figured as a Prefect you’d be against —”

Jane fixed her steely gaze on me. “As I said: Students have a right to protect themselves if attacked. The student handbook and international wizarding law both agree on that.”

I could see Rowan cock her head skeptically out of the corner of my eye, but both of us wisely kept quiet. 

“Thanks for this. We’ll check it out straightaway,” I said. Jane didn’t say anything in response — just pulled out her book again. 

“Bloody hell, that was the most helpful Jane’s ever been!” I marveled while we shuffled away.

Rowan nibbled her lip. She didn't like it when I cursed. "Don't you find it kind of odd, though? If this book is just for Hufflepuffs, why is it in the Artefact Room?"

“Probably so it can't get confiscated from the House lounge. And I assume it doesn't have 'Hufflepuff House' written all over it, since it's super against the rules," I said sarcastically. "There’s loads of books in the Artefact Room, though… I’d better ask Jane exactly what it looks like.”

Rowan clasped my sleeve before I could double back. “Later, then. We have Transfiguration now, and it’s on the other side of the castle. Come on.”

I begrudgingly followed her. Good thing she’d interceded: Surely enough, we got lost on the way there, finding the classroom just as McGonagall was shutting the door. McGonagall wasn’t as outwardly rancorous about our apparent impertinence as Snape, but she was just as strict, taking a moment out of her opening spiel to remind us that it was school policy to dock House points for tardiness. Boy, we really were having rotten luck.

Hufflepuff shared its first-year Transfiguration section with Ravenclaw, which, to me, meant one thing: There was absolutely no room for error in this class. I had to prove I was just as good, if not better, than the whole blue-hooded lot. I straightened my books self-consciously and took copious notes. Hopefully my aptitude for Charms extended to something as complex as Transfiguration.

But I didn’t learn the answer to that question, at least not right away. McGonagall’s opening day lesson plan was all theory. She promised we’d be casting spells soon enough — but how soon, exactly, she didn't say.

“That was a royal letdown,” I grumbled on our way out.

“Seriously? It was really interesting!” 

“I just want to cast some spells already. Speaking of which, _now_ can we check out the Artefact Room?”

“Oh, all right — but we need to be sure to get lunch before Defence Against the Dark Arts.”

“Hopefully, by then, we’ll have all the defence against the dark arts we need,” I quipped.

We headed into the familiar musty room at the end of the corridor. Had it really been this cramped the night of the Welcome Feast? 

“Wow, look at all this _stuff,_ ” Rowan breathed. “It would take ages to catalog it.”

“Good thing that’s not what we’re here to do,” I said gruffly. I pulled a dusty cover off a pile of planks, then pored over the massive shelves.

_Phil._

“Yeah?”

“What is it? Did you already find something?”

“No, you just said my name, didn’t you?”

Rowan peered at me oddly from behind an open cupboard. Her lenses were opaque with dust. “I didn’t say anything.”

 _Huh. Must be my imagination, then._ I kept rummaging about until my fingers clasped around something large and smooth. I pulled it into the light: a human skull. I shuddered and set it aside.

Under where the skull had been, however, was a pile of thin books. I picked them up. They looked less dusty than expected. I thumbed through one. It had an austere leather cover, like a high-end tome, but upon closer inspection it was clearly a ledger. The yellowing pages were bursting with generations of adolescent handwriting; a silk ribbon marked the page describing the effects of the Banishing Charm on a human subject. _Bingo_.

Before I could tell Rowan, however, a flash washed out my vision. I must have cried out, because the next thing I knew, Rowan was by my side, gripping my forearm so hard it felt it would snap.

“Phil! What’s wrong?”

_A walking suit of armour. A staircase shrouded in mist. Ice encasing Hogwarts, spreading faster and faster…_

“ _The ice is here._ ” I repeated words I’d just heard in my head, clear as day. “ _The vault will open._ ”

I fumbled for a seat on the pile of planks, and Rowan joined me.

“Phil, are you putting me on?” She laughed nervously. “This isn’t about the Cursed Vaults, is it?”

“ _Of course it’s about the Cursed Vaults!_ ” I hissed, and Rowan recoiled. “Sorry. I just… I’ve never experienced anything like that." My head sunk into my hands. “I saw— I saw awful things at Hogwarts just now. Things that shouldn’t be real.”

Rowan grew solemn. “Like a vision?”

I hated that word, with all its connotations of crockery. Mum spoke endlessly of visions; frankly, I’d come to Hogwarts hoping to escape those for good. But Rowan was right. No better word for it.

I responded with the tiniest of nods.

“I see. You might have more in common with your brother than you think, Phil.” 

Her words stung. “You don’t honestly think I’m mad, too, do you?”

“I don’t,” she said sincerely. “But I wonder if he had the same visions.”


	8. It’s Just the Power to Charm

“So, that’s really never happened to you before?”

My fork clinked against my plate. Nothing like an interrogation from Rowan to make me lose my appetite. “Like I’ve said three times already, no, it _really_ hasn’t.”

“Then it could be the sign of a Legilimens — you know, wizards who can enter other peoples’ minds.”

“Reading ahead again, I see.” I gloomily propped my chin on my fists. “So, was I reading your mind, then, or was someone reading my mind?”

“Well, I don’t know that much about it.” It was the first time I’d heard Rowan concede ignorance on a subject. “But that’s the only kind of magic I can think of that could explain it. Unless…” A smile played Rowan’s lips. “Maybe you’re a Seer!”

“No. Definitely not.” I pushed myself from the table. “If you’re done eating, let’s head to Defence Against the Dark Arts early.”

“Good idea.” Rowan walked with me out of the hall, then halted in the corridor. She anxiously looked at me over her glasses.

“Phil… I don’t mean anything by it, but you have to know: Loads of Dark wizards have been Legilimens. Those skills can be really, really dangerous. I think we should tell the Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher about your vision. She’ll know what to do.”

“And have someone else at this school think I’m mental? No, thank you.” I hustled away, loathing that Rowan, as always, had a point. We walked step in step up the staircase.

“OK, how ’bout this: Let’s see if it happens again, and then _maybe_ I’ll talk to a teacher about it.” A compromise. "We’re probably freaking out over nothing. Maybe I haven’t been sleeping well, or drinking enough water.”

Both were bald lies and Rowan knew it. She nodded vacantly. 

“Yeah. Maybe so...”

Our Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher dashed any hope I had of washing down Transfiguration with real spellwork. Rowan had already primed me on our way up the tower: Ancient old Galatea Merrythought had been brought out of forty-year retirement to serve as Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher until Dumbledore found a replacement. Apparently, Dumbledore resisted referring to the position as “interim” during his welcome speech, but students could read between the lines: The post was definitely hexed, seeing as no teacher lasted longer than a year. By the time Dumbledore introduced Merrythought, Rowan claimed, she had nodded off at the staff table and Snape had to jostle her awake — “a little rougher than strictly necessary, if you ask me.”

It didn’t help that Professor Merrythought looked like a strong wind could bowl her over, with nothing to say of her mental faculties. Class began, and she had just asked us to fetch our parchment and quills when her cloudy, once-brown eyes widened. 

“Goodness,” she croaked. “I’ve forgotten my wand today. Do pardon me.”

Acid laughs bubbled from the back of the room. I could tell it was Merula and some other Slytherin cronies.

If Merrythought heard them, she didn’t show it. She just shrugged; on her frail body, the gesture looked more like an involuntary shudder. “No matter. _Expecto Patronum._ ” 

She waved the open palm of her hand, tracing an arc of silver light over her head. Out of it leaped a huge tiger, teeth bared, its thunderous snarl rebounding off the walls. The whole class shrieked. I’m fairly certain Ben Copper hit the floor. 

The tiger sprung from side to side of the classroom, suspended on some invisible terrain a metre above our heads. Then, with one final, rippling leap, it vanished into thin air.

Merrythought’s chin wobbled with mirth. “A Patronus charm,” she said. “Something to look forward to.”

* * *

“ _That was wicked!”_

Rowan and Tonks were beside themselves with excitement. Everyone’s pyjamas were on, but no one was sleeping soon. Merrythought, of all people, had caused such a sensation with her wandless Patronus that my roommates were already ready for round two. Penny was also in our room for once, writing a letter at her desk. No doubt she was also recounting that day’s excitement. I idly wondered anew if she'd ever mentioned me, and if so, how she’d described me to her family.

“Just — _whoosh._ ” Rowan dramatically reenacted sweeping her hand over her head, standing on her bed like a podium. “And the size of that tiger!” 

“Didja see the size of its balls, Ro? That Patronus wasn’t just corporeal — it was _anatomically correct_.”

I wrinkled my nose. “Don’t be a perv, Tonks.” 

The now-redhead rolled her eyes. “Whatever, Flip.”

I was already none too fond of the cocky Metamorphagus, and siccing Merula’s pedestrian nickname on me wasn’t endearing herself any further. She passed notes in each and every one of our classes, including in Introduction to Astronomy later that day. Beyond being vexing (what on earth did Tonks have to say to _anyone_ on Day 2 of classes?), her behaviour was, in my opinion, outright galling for first sessions. I knew Rowan privately agreed with me, but her and Tonks’s shared rapture at DADA — even though we _still_ never drew our bloody wands once — seemed to have paved the way for an unlikely friendship. 

“What’s that?” Rowan asked, pointing to something Tonks pulled out of her nightstand. I was trying to blaze through the duelling handbook, but I still strained to get a better look, curiosity getting the better of me. Tonks showed off a Walkman D6C — brand-new, the best one money could buy. I only knew what it was from the way my Muggle friends talked about it in a hushed whisper.

“Merlin’s beard, how did you get a hold of one of those?” 

Tonks was clearly chuffed to have sucked me in. “Birthday present. Wanna give it a go?”

I shook my head resolutely. Besides being an obvious distraction, I was mortified at the thought of tinkering with it. If I broke it, I definitely wouldn’t be able to repay her. 

Of all people, Rowan piped up. “Can I try it?”

I expected Tonks to recoil and stammer excuses — it’s what any of the rich kids my mum tutored would have done. But Tonks grinned and handed the bundle of wires off without hesitation.

“ _Let’s Dance_ is in there now,” she said. Rowan stared back. “You know — Bowie?”

When Rowan still didn’t respond, Tonks’s cheeks sunk into her face, her hair and eyes brightening. One pupil dilated yawningly while the other stayed puny.

“Oh. _Oh!”_ Rowan perked up in vague recognition. “Got it. Yeah. Brilliant.”

Rowan slid the headphones over her ears — even those looked insanely high-end — and fumbled with the device. Eventually, she resorted to tapping the plastic of the cassette display like an overshaken bottle of cola; a pitying Tonks finally flipped the Play button for her. Rowan got her eardrums blasted out by the first track, then she looked totally enraptured, as though someone had cast _Confundus_ on her.

I snorted. Rowan usually only looked that way in class.

The page on _Incendio_ had been sitting open on my lap for the last five minutes. It looked like a nasty spell, but I couldn’t parse the wand-movement diagram. Whoever penned this entry had dreadful handwriting. There was only one bit I could make out on the smudged page: _Ask Flitwick_. I made a mental note to mention it to Rowan.

“PHIL,” she yelled, tugging away one of the headphones again. “YOU HAVE TO TRY THIS. THE SOUND IS EVEN CLEARER THAN OUR MAGIC RADIO AT HOME.”

“I doubt that,” I scoffed, “and no thanks. I’m probably going to bed soon.”

I thought I heard Penny chuckle over her letter. I glanced at her, seeking out her eyes, but she didn’t look back at me.


	9. Professor Flitwick's Lesson

We closed out the next two days of classes more or less without issue. I still excelled at Charms, and was pleasantly surprised that Ben did, too: He was the second person to successfully cast _Lumos_ , early in the second session. From then on, he managed to toss it off even more consistently than I could. I swallowed my jealousy. He deserved to enjoy this victory. (It helped that, the next day, I became the second person to be able to summon my broom in Flying class.) 

Then, the low: Transfiguration and DADA remained lectures, to my chagrin, then Tonks and Rowan got paired up for our first-ever Astronomy group project. That left me with a dopey-looking Gryffindor who admitted right out the gate that he hadn’t paid a lick of attention during class.

It didn’t rankle me much, though, since Rowan and I were spending so much time together in the dorm trying to crack the dueling book. So far we hadn’t managed to cast a single spell, though my _Rictusempra_ made her sneeze mightily. 

When I finally remembered the Easter egg about Flitwick at breakfast Friday morning, Rowan’s reply was immediate. 

“Well, he was a dueling champion when he was younger, wasn’t he?”

“He was?” I struggled to imagine diminutive, kindly Professor Flitwick slinging curses with abandon.

“Yes! It’s on his Chocolate Frog card.”

“So he _can_ help us...”

“And as of today, maybe Professor Snape can, too.”

I screwed up my face. “I’d prefer to keep my interactions with Snape at a minimum, thanks. Why, does his card say he was an ace hexer or something?”

“Professor Snape doesn’t have a Chocolate Frog card, silly,” Rowan tutted. “But he said we’d start brewing Wiggenweld Potion this Friday. Remember?”

God, that’s right. I’d been so preoccupied with the dueling charms themselves that the practical applications of a healing potion hadn’t even occurred to me. “Of _course_. Rowan, you’re brilliant!”

“I hate to say it, but we still should figure out a sneaky way to get more information out of Professor Snape. Our textbook says Wiggenweld’s effects aren’t immediate, so we’d probably need a hyper-concentrated brew or something for it to be effective in a duel. And we don’t want to mess with a potion we haven’t made befo— oh, hi, Ben.”

Ben looked as waifish as ever, dwarfed by his backpack. “Hullo. Mind if I sit?”

I scooted to make room for him but wasn’t in the mood to chat.

“How are you feeling about flying now, Ben? Better?” Rowan proffered.

He set down the forkful of potatoes he was about to shovel into his mouth. “Only ’cause we still haven’t technically done it yet.”

“We will soon enough,” I said. “You know you’re going to have to fly whether you’re ready or not, right?”

We all fell silent at this, until Rowan clapped her palms excitedly on the table. The impact clattered the silverware of everyone in a three-plate radius.

“I’ve got it! Ben, you want to practise flying safely, right? What if we cast the Levitating Charm on you?”

Ben shook his head vigorously. “No. No way.”

“Flitwick said we were going to practise today with a feather, not with _people_ ,” I cut in.

“But it’s possible, isn’t it? That’s how Dad eventually got me down from the hawthorn tree. It’s hard, but a really powerful wizard can do it. Or—” she looked 'round excitedly. “—multiple wizards.”

I rolled over what I knew about Charms from my mum. Actually... It sounded crazy, but it would work, in theory.

“We’ll still ask Flitwick for help, but I think it’s perfect. We help Ben get over his fear of heights, and the rest of us get to practise _Wingardium Leviosa_. Two birds, one stone, eh?” She nudged Ben, who looked less convinced.

* * *

“Pardon, Professor Flitwick.”

The corner of Flitwick’s eyes crinkled at the sound of Rowan’s voice. “Yes, Miss Khanna? Wonderful casting of _Lumos_ last class, by the way.”

 _Figures that the only genuinely cool professor here is the Ravenclaw House Head_. A familiar cocktail of jealousy and bitterness stirred the pit of my stomach.

Rowan straightened, like a sapling to sunlight. “Thank you, sir. I have a favour to ask. Or maybe a question.”

“Both are welcome.”

“Well, our friend Ben—” she gestured at the stack of books in the back of the classroom; Ben was cowering behind them, feigning keen interest in their binding — “see, he’s afraid of flying.”

“Ah.” Flitwick smiled. “A most understandable reaction.”

“Sir, I was thinking: What if a few of us practised _Wingardium Leviosa_ on Ben so he could get used to the feeling of being off the ground?”

Flitwick pursed his lips. “Under normal circumstances, Miss Khanna, I’d think it a stupendous idea. But seeing as you all have yet to successfully cast the spell on inanimate objects, I’m somewhat reluctant.”

“If we were able to master it early, could we give it a go?”

“Well… I don’t see why not.” 

Rowan and I grinned at one another. I wondered if she was thinking what I was, which was that this could also mean House points down the line. 

“Take your seats, both, and we’ll see how it goes. Mr Copper,” he called, “that means you, too.”

 _Wingardium Leviosa_ was much trickier than _Lumos_ , that’s for sure. It was profoundly exhausting to cast the spell, like hoisting a heavy load from the ground all the way up over my head. From what I could tell, everyone around seemed to feel it, too; Flitwick had passed out feathers for us to practise on, but they may as well have been made of lead. 

Ben, ironically enough, was the first to float his feather successfully. Flitwick delightedly doled points to Gryffindor. A few minutes later, Rowan and I traded ecstatic looks when our feathers breezed from the table at the exact same time. 

By the end of the first session, two other Gryffindor boys — a redhead and a kid Flitwick called Mr Kim — were able to dependably levitate their feathers, too. Hufflepuff matched them, with me, Rowan, and (annoyingly) Tonks also achieving short flights by the end of class. 

Flitwick dismissed the rest of the section a few minutes early and called the six of us to the front. I cast a sympathetic look towards Penny, who, I’d noticed, had struggled with her feather. 

“You all performed most admirably today,” Flitwick said. “So, I’d like to ask a favour of you all, by way of Miss Khanna: Please simultaneously cast _Wingardium Leviosa_ on Mr Cooper.”

Flitwick avuncularly clapped the back of Ben’s knees, which buckled. The Gryffindors not in the loop exchanged nervous looks.

“Now, never fear, Mr Copper. I am quite confident that your five classmates’ power will be sufficient to keep you aloft. And, if anything happens, I am here.” 

Ben’s jaw worked, as though he were about to say something. 

“Now, please draw your wands. On the count of three… three, two, one —!”

Ben’s robes rippled, the same way my clothes had when I first bonded with my wand. Jerkily but surely, his heels left the ground. I trembled; the others did the same. The level of exertion required to cast _Leviosa_ on him was roughly equivalent to each of us individually holding Ben aloft, _Dirty Dancing–_ style. But it was working. He floated higher, higher, his torso wracked with either hysterical laughter or sobs, I couldn’t tell which. Probably both.

Once he was totally suspended, rotating like a little planet, something told me I could let go. Gently, I released the spell; short of a tiny wobble, Ben didn’t show the effects at all. I beamed up at him. He beamed back, or maybe grimaced.

“Marvelous, isn’t it?” Flitwick watched him revolve.

“It is.” 

“That was a lovely gesture from you and Miss Khanna, not to mention ingenious. I’m awarding ten points to Hufflepuff on account of your kindness.”

Here was my chance. I cleared my throat. “Professor, is it true you were a dueling champion before you taught at Hogwarts?”

He chortled. “Indeed. I can _Stupefy_ and _Protego_ with the best of them. I have a shelf full of trophies in my quarters.”

“Do you think you could teach me some of what you know?”

Flitwick stiffened. “The Hogwarts curriculum shall include many defensive spells, Miss Poe.”

“I don’t think I can wait quite that long.” I chanced a meaningful look at him.

He surveyed my classmates to make sure they were still engrossed in their Levitating experiment. “And why are you so keen to duel, Miss Poe?”

“I’ve been jinxed already, sir. But I’m worried things could get worse for me if I tell a teacher.” Half-honesty was the best policy. It had served me fine on the Hogwarts Express, hadn't it? “Please, sir. I want to be able to defend myself.”

“Certainly. But duelling should always be a last resort.”

“I know. I wouldn’t ask if it weren’t really important.”

Flitwick rolled his tongue around his mouth. “I was afraid things might be difficult for you here, given your brother’s reputation.” The concern in his voice was touching. “All right. I’ll teach you one spell — just one. But it’s the finest defensive charm there is: _Expelliarmus._ ”

My heart leapt. Rowan and I had tried that one in the Common Room last night, to no avail. “Thanks so much, Professor. I won’t let you down.”

He stuck up a hand. “Don’t thank me yet. Meet me in the Clocktower Courtyard at the top of the supper hour.” We looked up at Ben, who was now spinning lengthwise as though on a spit. “I suspect we won’t be bothered. Roast pig tonight, or so I hear.”

* * *

I had never walked into Potions feeling so confident. Rowan had fully convinced me that we needed at least _some_ counsel from Snape before adapting the Healing Potion for dueling purposes. We waltzed in nice and early to set down our things; I beckoned Rowan to stay by my side.

“Afternoon, Professor.”

I could have made do if Snape only nodded. I could have made do if he ignored me completely. But instead, Snape looked up at me from his desk and stared at me, wordlessly. 

I stalled. How could one human being be so _awkward_ _?_ “So, uh... we’re making Wiggenweld Potion today, huh?” 

Snape sighed through his nose. “Yes, Poe, that would seem to be what I said at the end of Wednesday’s class, and what is written prominently on the blackboard.” 

I checked the front of the lecture hall. Ah. So it was. 

“I heard Wiggenweld can be used for dueling,” I blurted. “Is that true?”

So much for subtlety. Snape looked murderous, and Rowan like she wanted to sink into the floor. 

“If you plan on breaking school rules by dueling, Poe, by all means, be my guest. It will give me a most convenient excuse to expel you.”

We scuttled back to our seats. _“Are you mad?”_ Rowan hissed in my ear.

“I know, I know, OK?” More students filed in. “We’ll figure it out, don’t worry.”

Wiggenweld was a touch more straightforward than the Cure for Boils, but it had many more steps. I was worried I wouldn’t complete the brew by the end of class, but it all came together rather quickly towards the end.

When Snape approached Penny’s cauldron, he fell silent, his expression inscrutable. After a long pause, he muttered something so quietly I wondered if I’d dreamed it, but it sounded suspiciously like “ten points to Hufflepuff.”

Rowan must have heard it too, because she beamed. She made a big show of looking into my cauldron. 

“Wow, that looks brilliant.” Rowan said it loudly for the benefit of Snape, who was approaching our table.

He loomed over my cauldron. “It’s... passable. Miss Snyde’s concoction, however, is flawless.”

“Thank you, Professor Snape,” she said in a treacly voice. I rolled my eyes, which turned out to be a mistake. 

“ _Twenty-five_ points from Hufflepuff,” Snape snapped. “Roll your eyes at me again, Poe, and I will pluck them from your sockets and boil them in my next potion.”

My stomach churned, less from his words than the look on Penny Haywood’s face. 

* * *

Flitwick was right: That night, I was the sole student swimming upcurrent in the dinner rush to the Great Hall. Once I was certain I hadn’t been followed, I ducked into the Courtyard.

It was chilly; I hadn’t seen this much summer fog since the last time I hiked the Taconic Ridge Trail. Fall started sooner up in Scotland, I guess. I shivered and wished I’d worn more than my school uniform.

Flitwick nodded to me from the edge of the fountain, which had stilled to a tepid gurgle. He looked appropriately bundled up. 

“Thanks again for agreeing to teach me, Professor.” I could see my breath. “Sorry you’re missing the pig.”

He laughed. “That’s quite, quite all right. To be honest, I find it most macabre.”

I shuffled my feet. “Before we start, I have one more question.” Flitwick nodded encouragingly. “Do you know if… The Sorting Hat… Does it ever make mistakes?”

“Ah. A complicated question, Miss Poe, though — if you’ll forgive me saying so — not an uncommon one.” Flitwick unbuttoned his coat and slackened his scarf. “May I ask why you’re asking?”

I instinctively trusted Flitwick. _Here goes._

“Please don’t tell Professor Sprout. It’s nothing against her, I swear. But…” I couldn’t bear to meet his eyes, picking at a splinter on my wand. “I’m supposed to be in Ravenclaw, I just know it. It sounds cocky, but I’m really bright. My teachers always said so. So did you, when I cast _Lumos_ and _Wingardium Leviosa_ so early on—”

“And I wouldn’t have offered to tutor you on my own time if I didn’t think you were incredibly so, yes.” He smiled, and my cheeks warmed.

“Then why was I Sorted into Hufflepuff?”

Flitwick sat at the edge of the fountain and gestured for me to join him. I obliged. 

“In my many years at Hogwarts, I’ve come to learn that the Sorting process is much, much more intricate than a simple personality assessment. I can’t tell you how many students I’ve had who seemed to be Ravenclaws in sheep's clothing — or, rather, in gold, crimson, or green.” He chuckled. 

“Then what’s the point?”

Flitwick watched the fog roll over the Highlands. “Miss Poe, I can’t pretend to parse the Sorting Hat’s judgment. It possesses knowledge I, frankly, do not have. But I can tell you my hunch: I strongly suspect that the Sorting Hat does not place students on the basis of their past and present, but on the basis of their future. Their potential, so to speak.”

“What, it can read fortunes or something?” 

Flitwick picked up on my derision right away. “Quite fascinating, Miss Poe, that you share one of your mother’s inclinations and not the other. If you don’t mind me saying so.”

I winced. Of _course_ Flitwick knew my mother; she was also a natural talent at Charms. They might have even overlapped in Ravenclaw.

“I shall go on the record and say I don’t set much stock in Divination myself, at least not in the crudest sense," he clarified. "But I strongly believe the Sorting offers us a glimpse of who we will become.” 

Seeing that clearly wasn’t the answer I’d hoped for, he placed a comforting hand on my shoulder.

“Miss Poe, hear me when I say you would be an asset to any House — perhaps most especially Ravenclaw House, just as your brother was before you. But if you were placed into Hufflepuff, I wager there’s a compelling reason.” 

I clasped my hands together, hard, willing myself not to cry.

“Is there any way to swap?” I pleaded. “Any way at all?”

Flitwick shook his head sadly.

“Miss Poe, if there’s one thing you take away from our meeting tonight — besides a most flawless Disarming Charm — I hope it is this: Just because you can’t see the road ahead doesn’t mean it isn’t there.”

The fog rolled in low over the hills.


	10. Duel or Don’t

_“Expelliarmus!”_

Rowan’s wand whizzed out of her hand and ricocheted off one of the armchairs. “Did it again! That’s four times in a row. Me, now.”

“Wait, wait, let’s see if I can break five, first.” 

My cheeks ached from grinning so hard. The Disarming Charm was a piece of cake once Flitwick walked me through it. It was a dazzlingly sunny Sunday afternoon — not even jumper weather — so the rest of our House was, naturally, gallivanting on the grounds. Rowan and I handily took over the Common Room for a spot of dueling practice. 

“All right, on three. Three, two—”

 _“Expelliarmus!”_ I shouted. Rowan’s wand soared dangerously close to the fireplace.

“Not funny, Phil!” She scrambled after it. “Come on, you promised I’d have a go...”

“Oh, all right, then. Try me. Three—”

_“Expelliarmus!”_

My wand shot straight up towards the ceiling, as though expelled from my fist by a geyser. Rowan doubled over, wheezing.

“I suppose I deserved that.”

I fetched my wand and was about to catch Rowan unawares when noisy footsteps scuffled through the barrel door. We locked eyes; Rowan’s head gave a small shake in warning.

“There’s you lot!” 

It was Tonks. Of course. 

“Hurry to the Courtyard. Merula’s ’bout to whoop the Copper boy.” 

Rowan and I looked at each other, stricken. I couldn’t tell if Tonks was delighted or aghast at the prospect; she was nearly never without a toothy grin, so it was hard to say one way or the other. We dashed after her. 

A dense throng of students congregated in a corner of the courtyard. We elbowed our way to the front with some difficulty. Surely enough, there was Merula, her wand pointed right at Ben’s nose. She yelled something about how he was an embarrassment — typical Snyde fare.

“What’s going on?” Rowan asked an older girl in our house.

“Merula’s threatenin’ that Muggle-born kid. He keeps tryin’ to walk away, but she won’t let ’im,” she whispered back.

Merula’s voice cut above the din — or, rather, one choice word did. “Leave the magic to the real witches and wizards. Disgusting _Mudbloods_ like you shouldn’t even be allowed at Hogwarts.”

That was about all I could handle. I burst from the round and grabbed her wand arm, wedging myself between her and Ben. _“Enough!”_

If Merula looked bilious a moment ago, it was nothing compared to how she looked now. “Ah. _Flip_. Two embarrassments for the price of one. See your brother lately?”

“The only embarrassment here is you, Merula. At least Ben and I have friends.” 

The hoots and whistles from the crowd told me I’d landed on something — and oh, how Merula _loathed_ it. 

“If these are the friends Hogwarts has to offer, I’ll pass, thanks. Why don’t you make like your brother and go missing?” She tried to spit the words at me, but she sounded unnerved.

“Do I need to spell it out for you? _No one likes you, Merula._ ” I felt giddy from spite now. “Get that? I’ll bet not even your parents like you — I mean, assuming they’re not currently rotting in Azkaban with the rest of Slytherin.”

The crowd fell starkly silent, save for the odd gasp. Merula looked like she’d seen a ghost, so stricken was she. It was suddenly impossible to look directly at her, but I saw enough to notice that her face had warped — horrifically, hideously.

 _“Flipendo!”_ The shooting pain never came. Instead, I saw a familiar shape hit the ground with a sickening crack. 

“Rowan!”

Merula rounded on me. _“Flip—”_

_“Expelliarmus!”_

Merula’s wand soared out of her hand. I cackled. 

“That’s my name, Snyde, don’t wear it out.”

The crowd undulated around us; everything was chaos. Then, I saw the cause of the panic: Snape, striding towards Merula and me like a storm cloud. 

_“Poe.”_ He said my name like a filthy word. “As I suspected. You are so utterly predictable.”

“It’s not what it looks like, Professor Snape. I swear it.” I sounded far too desperate for my own good.

“I saw you Disarm Miss Snyde, and I currently see another student lying supine and bleeding. I think I know perfectly well what this looks like.”

Now that the crowd had scattered, I could see Rowan clearly. She cradled one of her elbows, her ears flushed and chin tucked into her chest. I registered Penny’s head bowed next to her, as well as the platinum blonde girl’s from our house. The latter blotted one of Rowan’s arms with something. I tasted sick in the back of my throat.

“Severus, what’s going on here?” The disturbance had even reached Flitwick, trotting towards us from the castle. I felt a fresh rush of shame. _How many more people am I going to disappoint at this cursed school?_

“Miss Poe and Miss Snyde seem to have had a spat, and Poe, to no one’s surprise, succumbed to her basest instincts.” He talked about me as though I were a wild animal. Looked at me like it, too.

If Flitwick was disgusted with me, too, he didn’t show it. “Did you cast the first spell in this duel, Miss Poe?”

“No. She cast _Flipendo_ on Rowan, then tried to on me.”

“It’s true.” 

We all swiveled round to — _Penny_. She looked Snape and Flitwick each in the eye. 

“Phil was only trying to defend herself. You can ask anyone. It’s the truth.”

Flitwick craned up to look at Snape. “It sounds as though Miss Snyde cast the first spell in this case, and that Miss Poe was indeed acting in self-defence.”

“And yet, I cannot help but wonder where a first-year learned the Disarming Charm.” Snape’s upper lip twitched dangerously. “Miss Poe, Miss Snyde: I expect to see you both in my office for detention, starting Tuesday. _Self-defence_ —” he raked these words over Flitwick — “or not, you will face consequences.”

He gestured for Merula to follow him. I didn’t even notice that she had begun to cry, and apparently more than crocodile tears. At least, I had to assume as much, since she seemed desperate to hide the fact from Snape and straggling onlookers.

Flitwick held my gaze steadily for a moment, then followed them. I felt glued to the spot. There was so much packed into that stare that I couldn’t begin to parse…

“Hey.” Penny Haywood stood in front of me. “Thanks for that.” 

“For what?” I said stupidly.

“You said what a lot of us wished we could say to Merula. But you were the only one brave enough to do it.” 

She had kind eyes. I hadn’t noticed that before. 

“I really hope Professor Snape doesn’t punish you too much. He’s not all bad, promise.”

The look on Merula's face burned into my psyche. "Merula looked really upset," I said. "I mean, more upset than usual."

"Yeah. About that." Penny looked a touch uncomfortable. "You know her parents actually _are_ in Azkaban, right? They were big Death Eaters. Their trial was covered by _The Prophet_ and everything. Merula lives with her aunt."

A chill coursed through my body. I'd had no idea. 

The other girl helped a groaning Rowan to her feet. “I’m fine, really, I don’t need to see Madam Pomfrey— just some scrapes—” 

“Well, let Chiara dress them, at least,” Penny interjected, snapping me out of my stupor. “She wants to be a Healer, you know. It’d be good practice.” (The white-blonde girl blushed but didn’t deny it.) “And I can whip up a fast-acting Wiggenweld.”

Rowan’s eyes connected with mine. “Did you say ‘fast-acting’? Is it more concentrated than normal Wiggenweld?” Even when wounded, she tripped over herself to ask questions.

“No, you just keep it over the flame longer. At least, that’s what _Advanced Potion-Making_ says.”

 _Bloody hell, is everyone in our dorm but me reading ahead?_ I thought of the night before, when Tonks had snuck a Whoopie Cushion in Rowan’s bed rather than finish her History of Magic assignment. I supposed it was unlikely.

“How fast are we talking?” I could hardly keep the excitement out of my voice.

“The moment it hits your gut. Why?” Her eyes flitted between Rowan and me.

“We were looking for just the thing, actually. For duels,” I explained. “We wanted to have it ready whenever Merula struck next. Well, she’s done it, and I bet she’ll do it again.”

I was expecting a lecture from Penny. She seemed more the straight-and-narrow type — in other words, exactly the kind of student I _thought_ I’d be at Hogwarts, if fate hadn’t had other plans. 

Instead, she grinned wickedly. “Makes sense to me. But next time, let me jinx her first, will you?”


	11. A Dorm of One's Own

Remember what I told you about the other Hufflepuff girls getting caught up in schoolyard rubbish?

Well, let me tell you: It got worse before it got better. But to be honest, I might not have noticed if Rowan hadn't pointed it out to me first.

“I feel bad for her,” Rowan said to no one in particular, her mouth full of egg sandwich. The first tea hour of the school year couldn’t have come at a better time: We were fresh off a hellish Potions pop quiz, then I’d had to stay even longer with Merula to serve our first detention. Nothing like scrubbing decades of accumulated scum off storeroom cauldrons to get you in the mood for finger cakes.

“Tonks? I know.” I reached for another sugar cube. “Doubt _she_ passed.”

“No, no, not her. Chiara. You know — the one who helped me the day of the duel?”

I followed her gaze down the House Table. Surely enough, the pale wisp of a girl was sitting alone, a few seats away from her dormmates. The latter were also looking at her, or more like glaring. They whispered coldly to one another.

“What’s the deal with that? D’you know?”

Rowan shook her head sadly. “No clue. They’ve been ignoring her during class, too. She asked Maggie Macmillan for a little ink in Transfiguration yesterday, and she wouldn’t give her any.”

“Well, maybe she’s… you know…”

“What?” Rowan’s eyes fluttered naïvely behind her overlarge glasses.

 _Uncool._ I couldn’t finish the sentence. I was ashamed, now, reminded of how embarrassed I’d been to be Rowan’s friend at first. Last week alone, she’d taken at least a half-dozen falls for me, sometimes literally. 

“I’ve been meaning to tell you, Rowan: I’m so sorry you got caught up in all that. The duel, I mean.”

“Are you kidding? It was kind of fun being part of the action, honestly. Even if I did land on my tush.” Rowan shuffled in her seat. “Which still kind of hurts, now that I mention it.”

I saw Penny’s bag plop down next to me before I saw Penny. She beamed at me and Rowan. 

“Afternoon,” she said cheerily. “How about that pop quiz, huh? He’s a tricky one, Professor Snape.”

“Oh, come on. I bet you got full marks,” I teased. 

“I really doubt it. Who on earth expects a pop quiz second week?” She tried to sound humble, but her cheeks pinkened tellingly. 

“Penny, do you know what the story is with Chiara Lobosca?” Rowan asked. 

Personally, I would have needed a little more to go on, but Penny paused buttering her scone to groan rather theatrically.

“God, the other girls are so juvenile, aren’t they? They’re just cross because Chiara’s got a whole dorm to herself.”

“She does? I thought she was roommates with the Ms.”

Penny snickered. “I might have to steal that one from you. But no. She doesn’t have any.” She leaned in. “Her room’s the size of all of ours, too.”

“Well, blimey! I’d be a bit jealous, too. Heck, I _am_ jealous.” Rowan pouted. 

“Yeah, but you’re nice _,_ Rowan. The rest of the House can’t seem to get over it, now that word’s gotten out.”

“Why do you reckon she has her own room?” I asked.

“I don’t know. And no one else I’ve talked to knows, either.” 

Penny was an incorrigible gossip — that much I’d picked up. Her intel may well be gospel: If Penny didn’t know, no one knew.

“Should we just ask her?” Rowan wondered aloud.

“I dunno… Isn’t that sort of rude? What if she’s ill or something?” 

“She always looks a little peaky,” I affirmed. 

Chiara pushed herself from the table and made to head out. Maggie, Maddie, Mia, and Marina quieted as she passed, but they stared at her unblinkingly. Once Chiara sulked a little closer, I could see that she didn’t just look pale: She looked exhausted, as though she'd been wrung out like a towel. 

I barely found my voice in time. “Hey, Chiara.”

She didn’t seem to hear me. Penny jumped in. “ _Earth to Chiara!_ Over here!”

She looked disoriented; so did our entire side of the House Table. “Penny, it’s you. Hi. Sorry, I was zoning out.”

“Wanna sit with us?” I offered.

“Oh, that’s all right… I’d better get going. I’m pretty tired.” Given her state, that looked to be an understatement.

“Are you feeling OK? We missed you in class yesterday,” Rowan said. 

I wracked my brain. Indeed, Chiara hadn’t been in any of our sections yesterday.

“Yes, fine. Well, better now,” she said. “I get terrible migraines. Have to miss loads of school for them.”

Rowan opened her mouth for a follow-up, but Penny wisely jumped in. “I’m so sorry. That sounds dreadful,” Penny said.

Chiara smiled tightly. “It is.”

“Well, rest up. Want us to bring you anything from dinner later?” Penny asked.

“No, I don’t have much of an appetite. Thanks, though.” And with that, Chiara turned on her heel and left the Great Hall.

“Odd girl,” Penny said. “Keeps to herself, you know?”

* * *

“’Oy, Flip, for chrissakes! If you don’t stop whining, I’m bunking up with Lobosca, and I’m pretty sure she has TB.”

I shot daggers at Tonks, partially obscured behind the latest _NME._ “You try losing ten afternoons a month ’til Christmas, see how much you complain.”

“Hey, I’m not the one who can’t keep my wand in my trousers.”

Penny snorted; I fumed. I was barely a quarter of the way through Snape’s detentions and already at wits’ end. The only thing worse than doing the greasy potions master’s chores was doing them with insufferable, snotty Merula, whose hatred of me had reached new depths since our duel. Rowan reasoned that our punishment had been pretty fair, seeing as the alternative was expulsion, but that didn’t stop me from complaining about it to anyone who’d listen — and, in Tonks’s case, even those who’d prefer not to.

“I’m going to the Owlery,” I grumbled, grabbing a letter off my desk and slamming the door on my way out. Rowan only looked up absently from her homework; since she discovered it a month ago, Tonks’s Walkman had practically become an extension of her ears. 

I tramped up the West Towers. I’d put off sending a letter to my mum until now, even though she’d broken our silence weeks ago. She’d sent me a short note and a knitted tea cozy in the Hufflepuff house colours — a lovely gesture, though I had no idea when I’d use it. It just goes to show you: At the end of the day, mums are mums. Even batty ones.

I stopped partway up the spiral staircase, sliding my note from the yet-sealed envelope. 

> _Dear Mum,_
> 
> _Thanks so much for the cozey. It was very nice of you._
> 
> _Hogwarts has been eventful so far. My favourite Professor is Flitwick. Did you know him from Ravenclaw?_
> 
> _Sincerely,_
> 
> _Phil_
> 
> _P.S. I love you too._

There were those half-truths again. But at least I hadn’t lied: I didn’t tell her Hogwarts felt safe, for example, or that I missed home, or that I missed her loads. None of that was true.

I stared at an ink blot at the very end of my message. I’d nearly written a post-postscript: that I missed Jacob all the time, like a dull ache in the back of my chest, and wondered if she felt it, too. But once I touched my quill to parchment, I found I couldn’t bring myself to ask.

I sealed the envelope and completed the trek to the Owlery. It was a dangerous little loft: drafty, with wide-open balconies and embrasures, in front of which only the feeblest of railings came between a visitor and tumbling to one's death. I remembered a tale of Jane’s at the House table, about a hapless first-year who had once slipped on ice while sending an evening owl. _He tumbled down the rafters and wasn’t found ’til the next morning_. I shuddered, both from the thought and the damp, brisk wind. There were far too many ways to die at Hogwarts than I'd ever be entirely comfortable with.

Once I got further inside, I could see I wasn’t alone: someone was sitting cross-legged on the frigid floor, as though waiting. Her hair looked luminescent in the rising moonlight. 

Ah. Chiara.

I cleared my throat; she swiveled, then pushed herself up. 

“Philippa! What are you doing here?”

“Sending a letter. What else would I be doing?” I recruited a handsome, amber-eyed owl to deliver my post. It winged off with a playful peck. “And you?”

“I like to come up here for fresh air.”

I sniffed. “Doesn’t smell too fresh to me. When do you think was the last time they changed out this hay?”

“I didn’t notice.” She smiled nervously. “I don’t mean to be rude, but would you mind giving me some time alone, actually? I’d like some space.”

“Hey, curfew’s not for another twenty minutes and I need to send an owl, too.” I looked at her sidelong. “Besides, you’d think you got enough alone time, seeing as you have your own room and all.”

I’d meant to sound jocular, but something I said must have set Chiara off. She bristled. 

“Have you or any of the others considered, for even a moment, that _I_ might’ve wanted roommates, too? That I didn’t ask for this?” She glared at me icily. 

“Whoa, whoa. Chiara, calm down—”

“Don’t you understand? _I can’t calm down!”_ She was nearly yelling now. 

I retreated. Chiara took the opening to dash out the door, leaving me stunned in her wake. I felt awful — for what, exactly, was less clear.

I edged towards the same vista Chiara had been admiring. It really was a gorgeous night — mostly clear, but rimmed by dense clouds around the periphery. Would the view grant me a sliver of peace, too?

I don’t know how long I stood there. I was finally broken out of my stupor by a dingy little owl swooping dangerously close to my head. I ducked just in time; it ribboned back around to perch itself on my shoulder.

“Ow. Watch it.” It was cute when an owl nibbled your finger, less so when it nibbled your cheek. Something sharp poked my shoulder — an envelope. It was addressed to Chiara in tight, elegant handwriting. 

Of course. So she had been waiting for something.

“Thanks,” I breathed. The owl chomped my earlobe, then retired to its nest. I figured I’d better do the same before the curfew call.

I took the stairs down the tower two at a time and trotted back to the Common Room. Chiara’s dorm was just catty corner from ours. Naturally, the door was shut. I knocked.

“Do not disturb, please.” She sounded teary.

“Chiara, it’s me, Phil. I’m really sorry; I didn’t mean anything by what I said.” 

No response. Rowan peered at me inquisitively from the bathroom, toothbrush in mouth. I waved her off. 

“I also have something,” I said through the door. “A letter. It’s addressed to you.”

I could hear movement inside the room. The door cracked open, and one big blue eye peered out. 

“It arrived just after you left,” I said, handing it to her through the crack in the door.

The smile on her face as she took that envelope and looked at the writing on the front was something to behold. I hoped Chiara would look like that more often. Perhaps she would once she beat her illness. 

“Thank you, Philippa.” she said breathlessly. 

“No problem. And just call me Phil.” I turned to head back to my room. 

“Philippa — I mean, Phil.” Chiara opened the door a little wider so I could see her full face.

“Yeah?”

“I was fibbing. It smells disgusting up there.”

She shut the door, unanswered questions suspended in the air between us.


	12. The Fifth Floor Corridor

Hallowe’en was my favourite day of the year for three reasons, each more than enough cause for celebration alone. First, obviously, it’s the anniversary of the day You-Know-Who got blasted to bits by a baby. Second, it gave me an excuse to wear trousers without reproach, all in the name of dressing in costume. 

And last, but certainly not least, it was my birthday. I’d be twelve that year, which I found hard to imagine. The year preceding had felt interminable — a vicious, ugly purgatory. But turning twelve had to count for something, right?

I couldn’t quite hide the spring in my step on my way to that Monday’s Charms class. I was still riding the high of stellar marks in the course (Ben only just barely edged me out in our most recent performance evals), and the jack o’lanterns popping up around the castle did wonders for my mood. Rowan was bouncing last-minute costume ideas off me; I greeted Professor Flitwick brightly while we settled in our seats.

“Miss Poe. Please pardon my interruption. A word in the corridor, please?”

Rowan stopped yammering as though Flitwick had cast _Silencio_. I followed him tentatively.

Flitwick led me a few paces from the door, out of earshot of incoming students. He folded his specs and tucked them in his front pocket, sighing heavily. 

“First, let me say that I am most impressed by your performance in my class. I do not take it for granted. But it is for precisely that reason that I must ask you to sit out today’s class, as well as Wednesday’s.”

“What?” I watched as Penny entered the classroom, in the middle of an exuberant but one-sided conversation with Chiara. “We’re learning _Flipendo_ today, aren’t we?”

“Indeed. Seeing as it can be used as a dueling spell, however, and knowing your track record in such pursuits, Professor Dumbledore has forbidden me to teach it to you.” Before I could argue, Flitwick added, “And I should say, I agree with him on this matter.”

“But you can’t just refuse to teach me a spell!” I countered. “I have to learn the same stuff as everyone else.”

“This is an extenuating circumstance, Miss Poe.”

“Well, is Merula going to be made to sit out classes, too, then? It’s only fair.”

“Fair, most assuredly — but futile. She already has considerable command of the Knockback Jinx, as you and Miss Khanna are no doubt aware.” He looked at me coldly. 

“So, that’s it, then? You’re going to leave me defenceless?”

“Faculty and prefects are more than capable of handling ruffians like Miss Snyde on your behalf, Miss Poe. I promise you that I will teach you the Knockback Jinx myself when I am satisfied that you have recanted duelling for good.”

I surveyed Flitwick, as though seeing him for the first time. “Wait. This isn’t just about the duel. This has to do with my brother, doesn’t it?”

The tight line of his mouth was answer enough. The tears came hot and fast before I could stop them. 

“When will anyone at this bloody school understand that I’m _not_ Jacob?” My voice rebounded off the corridor walls. I stalked away without waiting for a response. Even if Flitwick docked me House points for my rudeness, I didn’t have to stick around to hear him do it.

I clipped someone’s shoulder rounding the stairs to the Dungeons. Our bewildered eyes met. _Snape_. He was accompanied by someone who managed to look even fouler than him — a craggy, prematurely balding man whose face looked to have been preprogrammed with a scowl. A similarly dismal-looking cat slunk around his ankles. 

_What a crew to cross,_ I thought.

“To class, Poe,” Snape intoned. But, to my bafflement, he said nothing more, instead sweeping away to follow his companion. He hadn’t even broken his stride. Wherever they were going, they were trying to get there in a hurry.

I stood rooted in my spot, unsure what to do. Was that panic in Snape’s voice?

“Did you not hear him, or are you just that stupid?” 

I found myself face-to-face with Merula’s wand for the third time that school year. 

“You must be the stupid one if you’re going to try to hex me again.”

“Walk away and pretend this never happened, and maybe I won’t this time.” As Merula threatened me, her eyes flitted cautiously to Snape and his companion. Why wasn’t she in class, either? Had she been... _following them?_

“No, I don’t think I will.” I tilted my chin up defiantly. “And if you don’t drop your wand now, I’m going to scream blue murder.”

Merula blanched. Her wand dropped to her side, most unwillingly. “Stay here, or else,” she hissed, then took off after the adults, who had just rounded a corner at the end of the hall.

Well, there was my answer. I kept tight to her heels.

“Poe, I swear on my life, if you follow me —”

“Well, I am now, so tough tits.”

Merula growled, but kept plugging forward.

We kept enough paces behind Snape and company to go unnoticed. They headed down a nondescript corridor on the fifth floor, stopping to survey a random part of the wall. 

I squinted. There was a dark spot where stone wall met floor. I wrinkled my nose. Had someone taken a leak on school grounds?

Merula yanked me around a corner. Without meaning to, I’d inched into eyeshot of Snape and the other man; thankfully, they were too fixated on the spot to notice.

“You’re impossible,” she snapped.

“Who’s that with Snape?” 

“Filch the Hogwarts caretaker, _obviously_. You don’t know anything, do you?”

“Speaking of things I don’t know, care to tell me why we’re here?”

Merula shushed me. We could hear Snape and Filch’s voices pretty clearly from our hiding place.

Snape kneeled down to wave his wand over the spot. I grimaced. _Gross._

“Well?” That was Filch.

“It’s cursed ice. Do not touch it under any circumstances.” Snape pushed himself back up. “Who else knows about this?” 

“Only me and Mrs Norris, sir. Was going to tell the Headmaster, I was,” Filch said. His cat was now in his arms, glowering at Snape.

“I will inform Professor Dumbledore on your behalf. This may have to do with the Poe situation.”

Merula and I both froze up. _The Poe situation._ And who was Mrs Norris?

Snape turned to leave, but Filch tottered after him. “Is it true, Severus, that the Vaults are filled with gold? And prophecies? And ancient artefacts?”

“Don’t worry about what’s inside the Vaults. Worry about keeping everyone else out.” He gestured at the entrance to the corridor. “We must construct a door at this threshold immediately. Lock it, and keep it guarded.” 

Filch nodded his assent, and the two headed out. Merula and I stayed put until we heard them descend the staircase again, then she started off after them.

“Merula, wait!”

“Can’t, Poe. I’m supposed to be in class as is.” Was it just me, or did she sound… _happy?_

“Don’t tell me you’re looking for the Vaults, too,” I snorted. When she didn’t respond, I halted in my tracks, then sprinted after her. 

“ _Seriously?_ You? But you call my brother crazy for doing the exact same thing!”

“Just shut up and sit your time-out, Poe.” 

I could see I wasn’t going to get any more info out of Merula today. At least she’d retired her asinine “Flip” epithet.

* * *

Naturally, I rushed to update Rowan on everything I’d overheard in the fifth-floor corridor. With some trepidation, she agreed to head back with me during supper to investigate. In the meantime, Filch had blocked off the threshold with a sign, which we circumvented without hesitation. 

We squatted to observe the ice. It just looked like any frozen-over puddle — albeit an out-of-place one, seeing as this corridor wasn’t any chillier than the rest of the castle. Perhaps it was my imagination, but it looked as if it had gotten bigger.

I reached for the wall. Rowan snatched back my hand.

“Don’t, Phil! Professor Snape said it was cursed!”

“I’m not going to _touch_ it! I just want to see if the wall’s cold, too.” 

“That’s not a good idea. Maybe it’s all cursed…”

Rowan sucked in her breath sharply when I carefully stuck out my other hand. I hovered my palm a few centimetres from the wall. 

“I can feel the chill from here,” I said. “Go see if the walls in the rest of the corridor feel the same.”

Rowan mimicked me, trying out a couple other spots. “Nope,” she reported. “Just this section here.”

“Weird.”

Rowan prodded me with her foot. I followed her gaze. A cat stared at us from down the hall before slinking away. 

_“That’s_ Mrs Norris,” Rowan said. “Wherever she is, Filch isn’t far behind. We’d better go.” 

I had to admit, under normal circumstances, her news that the enigmatic “Mrs Norris” was merely Filch’s cat would have been pretty anticlimactic. But in this instance, and this instance only, it was quite the relief. 

We stole away towards the Great Hall before we crossed anyone else.


	13. Toil and Trouble

After everything that happened that Monday, Hallowe’en burned a little less brightly in my mind. Per Flitwick’s orders, I sat out that morning’s _Flipendo_ lesson, too, but Rowan had already started teaching me the basics in secret. 

That’s the story of how I spent the morning of my twelfth birthday dressed as Luke Skywalker, trying to send pillows sailing across the Hufflepuff Common Room. “Trying” was the operative word: For the second day in a row, I made zero headway, as I later complained to Rowan in Herbology.

Tonks blatantly eavesdropped, not even pretending to pay attention to Professor Sprout’s Puffapod lecture. “Sounds like you’re not exactly one with the Force, eh, Flip?” 

I nearly crumpled my quill. “I wish Tonks would shapeshift away her ears, and her fat mouth while she’s at it,” I growled to Rowan.

“She's only teasing.” Rowan pushed up her glasses, smudging her Aladdin Sane facepaint.

“You’re just saying that ’cause she helped with your costume.” 

“So what if I am? It’s a good costume, even if _some_ people can’t appreciate it.”

I snickered. I’d earnestly asked Rowan that morning if she was dressed as “cousin Harry,” to her and Tonks’s eternal horror. What can I say? I know nothing about Muggle stuff. In fact, the only reason I knew a lick about Star Wars was because I’d been dragged to see _Return of the Jedi_ at a birthday party the year before.

Once I got going, Rowan couldn’t help but giggle, too. Professor Sprout shushed us.

I felt a little better by the time I got to Potions. Seeing as it was Potions, though, I didn’t expect that to last. I’d seen far too much of the inside of this classroom, with nothing to say of my two least favourite people in it.

Snape silently surveyed the class once we’d all settled into our seats. He sighed, as though we should have known better. “The calendar does not supersede Hogwarts’s dress code,” he drawled disdainfully. “Twenty-five points from Hufflepuff; ten from Slytherin.”

Like I said, wouldn’t last. I wordlessly tallied up the deficits myself. 

“Bollocks! Just as many Slytherins are wearing costumes, too,” I whispered to Rowan, pointing at Ismelda Murk's ghastly devil-horn headband.

Merula cut in. “Maybe, but we weren’t stupid enough to wear them _instead_ of our robes.” She smiled simperingly, revealing plastic vampire fangs.

Rowan diplomatically offered to grab Wiggenweld ingredients for the table, leaving me and Merula alone. She tilted towards me. “Have you told anyone what we saw in the corridor?”

“No,” I answered quickly. _Except Rowan._ “How come?”

“Only wondering.” 

I glanced towards Rowan. She was still perusing the stores. 

“Merula, just tell me why you’re after the Vaults and we won’t have any problems—”

“It’s none of your business.”

“Actually, it _is_ my business. My brother went missing looking for them. For as obsessed as you are with him, you don’t really get that, do you?”

She looked me up and down. “Isn’t it obvious? He failed, because he came from a family of failures.”

My blood turned to ice. What did Merula know about my family?

“At least my parents love me more than You-Know-Who.” The words escaped my lips before I could stop them. I knew they’d cut. But I needed Merula to hurt, too. I needed her to feel what I felt.

Rowan regarded Merula and I worriedly when she returned with the ingredients. Merula was visibly shaken, of course, and my eyes were trained on a spot on the dungeon floor.

“Well, let’s review Cure for Boils, then, shall we?” Rowan announced feebly. 

I tried to ignore Merula the rest of the class period, but I found myself keeping an eye on her every move — whether from shame or fear of retaliation, I wasn’t sure. Her head obviously wasn’t in it. Well after Rowan and I had already stoppered up our samples, she gave her brew a couple impatient stirs and drew her wand to complete the potion.

“Wait.” My voice surprised even myself.

“Why? Look appetising to you, Poe?” she spat.

I furrowed my brow. When Merula was truly upset, she couldn’t even be properly mean. “Um… I just think you should stir it a little more, that’s all.”

“What?” Her eyes looked red-rimmed.

“Your potion’s not done yet. Give it another couple stirs.”

She peered at me suspiciously. A shadow fell over our table.

“Astonishingly, Poe is correct.” I had been so distracted all class that I hadn’t noticed Snape watching us. “I see detention is starting to make an impression. Five points to Hufflepuff.”

Rowan nudged me ecstatically. I allowed myself a little grin, which really set Merula off. She huffily bottled up her sample and charged for the door without so much a word.

Snape cleared his throat. “Skipping detention today, Miss Snyde?” 

We both looked aghast. Clearly, Merula hadn’t wagered having to serve detention on Hallowe’en, either.

“Erm, Professor, if it’s quite all right with you, I’d rather make up detention another day, if possible,” I said delicately. “It’s actually my birthday today, and…”

I trailed off at the supercilious expression on Snape’s face. 

“And that concerns me why?” 

Until that moment, I hadn’t noticed how much Snape reminded me of Darth Vader. I offered a half-hearted shrug. 

“Your lack of decorum and disregard for your own House is most unprecedented, Miss Poe,” he continued. “Argue with me, by all means. I have no qualms issuing a permanent moratorium on your ability to earn House Points in the future. Unless…?”

I bowed my head. “I’ll get to scrubbing, Professor, sir.”

His scowl lines deepened. “As I thought.”

* * *

“Pumpkin pie… Pumpkin soup… Stuffed pumpkin...” Rowan piled up her plate higher and higher. She sighed dreamily. “I must be in heaven.”

“Easy, Ro, or you’ll be taking a pumpkin shit later, too,” Tonks said.

I poked at my plate. Snape had me dumping jars of expired leeches all detention, so my appetite was nowhere to be found. “Anyone see Penny? Or Chiara?” 

Usually, I wouldn’t have thought much of their absence, but everyone knew the Hallowe’en Feast was a special occasion. The Frog Choir had already kicked off the festivities with their first concert of the school year, and Dumbledore’s post-dinner entertainment was the stuff of legend.

“Maybe they don’t like pumpkin?” Tonks said through an orange mouthful.

Half my question was answered when Penny bounded across the Great Hall. She looked equal parts exhilarated and frazzled.

“Phil!” I nearly choked on the pumpkin biscuit I was trying to force down. “I need a hand. Do you have a sec?”

I followed Penny out of the Hall. “Everything all right?”

She grinned in front of the Artefact Room, then swung open the door dramatically. I gasped. What looked to be fresh, extra-strength Wiggenweld Potion steamed from a cauldron on the floor.

“Oh, Penny, this is brilliant!” I could have hugged her. “You really didn’t have to do this.”

“Yes, I did! I promised.” She clicked the door shut behind her. “I’m just sorry it took so long. I had to nick stuff from Professor Snape’s stores slowly enough that he wouldn’t notice. But I wanted to make sure I got it done in time for your birthday.”

Whoa. Penny was more of a loose cannon than I’d expected. My urge to hug her intensified.

“Thank you, Penny.”

“Well… There’s one problem.” She grimaced. “I had to brew it in here so the fumes wouldn’t spread in the Common Room, but now we have to get it back to the dorm to bottle it. So I actually do need your help carrying it, and being a lookout in case we cross anyone not at the feast.”

“Fine by me.” I masked the trepidation in my voice. _If we were caught…_ I couldn't even stomach that hypothetical.

“All right, then. One, two, three…”

We hoisted the cauldron end by end and hustled out the door. It wasn’t too heavy, but it was awkward, sloshing about.

“Leave it,” she said when I paused to try to mop up a Wiggenweld puddle with my sock. “Worst thing that could happen is Mrs Norris laps it up.”

“What would _that_ do?” 

“Hmm. I expect she would kill every single mouse in Hogwarts Castle in a night.” Penny smirked. “Like espresso for kitties.”

We lucked out: The corridors were indeed barren. We could hear only the cacophony of incessant dishwashing from the kitchens. It was eerie to see any part of the castle this dead before curfew. 

Penny rapped out the password, then graciously took the whole cauldron in her arms once we reached our door. By now everyone knew about my standoff with the roots guarding our dormitory, and Penny clearly didn’t plan to lose any of her precious brew because of it. I’d since learned the roots wouldn’t trip me if I kicked my heels high enough, or if I took them at a running leap. That night, I did the latter, knowing it amused Penny.

“How long does this keep for?” I asked, watching Penny ladle the concoction into mason jars. She kept a huge stash of the things under her bed.

“Forever. Just keep it at room temp.” She screwed on the lid of the first serving. “What else did you get for your birthday?”

“Rowan made me a friendship bracelet. My dad sent me new hiking boots. And my mum…” _Sent me a book on tasseography_. “...got me a book on spells.”

She sighed. “It must be hard to have a birthday on Hallowe’en. There’s so much other stuff going on.”

“I love it, actually. I love that everyone's happy on my birthday, wizards and Muggles both.” I knew full well how sounded corny I sounded, but hey, it was the truth.

She smirked at me. “Spoken like a true Hufflepuff.” 

I started gathering up jars to tuck under my four-poster. “Your whole family has been in Hufflepuff, right?” 

“Going back generations, yup.”

Penny was well aware of my ambivalence towards the House. I couldn’t remember having told her, but I was rubbish at hiding it, anyhow. Plus, like I said, Penny had a way of finding out about everything.

“So you wanted to be in Hufflepuff,” I ventured.

“Wrong. I wanted to be in Slytherin.” 

I nearly dropped the jars I was holding. _“What?”_

“I’m dead serious! The Hat almost put me there, too.” She laughed, clarion and glass-like. “Why are you so surprised? All the greatest potions masters of the twentieth century have come out of Slytherin. And I’m ambitious — or, I’d like to think I am.”

“But Slytherins are… are…”

“Dodgy? Some are, but not all of them.”

“Oh, yeah? Name one decent Slytherin in our year.”

Penny counted on her fingers. “Marcellus Pucey, Rhonda Sommertime, Elias King, Liz Tuttle, Johnny Winickus, Barnaby Lee… want me to keep going?”

“OK, OK, I get it. I’m still wrapping my head around the idea of you in _Slytherin_.” I shuddered involuntarily.

“Well, next time you’re feeling put out about being in Hufflepuff, look on the bright side: It obviously wasn’t your last-choice House.” 

I socked her on the arm. But not too hard.

* * *

We emerged from the Common Room laughing. Penny was so easy to talk to. I could hardly believe she wanted to be friends with someone like me.I hadn’t been _un_ popular at Muggle school, but I certainly never rubbed elbows with the most popular girl in my year, either. From the moment Penny pulled me out of the Hallowe'en to the moment we left the dorm, I’d kept my eyes fixed on her, as though she might Disapparate if I blinked.

We were interrupted by footsteps descending the stairwell — no, _running_ down them. Penny and I stopped and stood aside. Who was in such a rush?

Chiara came sprinting down the stairs breathlessly. She was the most frantic I’d ever seen her, and somehow even paler.

“Where’s Dumbledore?” she demanded.

“Probably in the Great Hall, I don’t know,” I said. 

Chiara shook her head wildly, clutching her stomach. 

“He's not? Then I’m really not sure…”

“Chiara, you’re hurt!” Penny gasped. 

I hadn’t seen it at first: deep gashes down Chiara’s front, shredding her sweater and soaked in still-fresh blood. I clutched the handrail in horror.

“I’ll go get Madam Pomfrey—” Penny said, starting up the stairs.

“I can take care of myself, someone just needs to get Dumbledore,” Chiara pleaded. Her cheeks, now utterly ashen, were streaked with tears. 

“But you're _bleeding_ —”

“Please.” Chiara looked at us, her eyes hollow. “There’s a werewolf at Hogwarts.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posted on 11/13/2020, along with some light edits to previous chapters for continuity and clarity! Thanks to those who left kudos!


	14. Lunar Lockdown

Several things happened all at once. I felt Penny shove past me and rush back down to the dungeons before I actually processed it. It wasn’t exactly in keeping with her promise to go get Madam Pomfrey, or look for Dumbledore. We both knew he wasn’t down there.

I instinctively reeled to follow her, but Chiara’s sharp cry stopped me in my tracks: “Leave her. We need to find Dumbledore now!”

I obliged — I mean, Chiara was the one bleeding out — and raced up the stairs. My thoughts churned so violently that I momentarily forgot where his office was. I’d passed it before, hadn’t I? But was it in the East or the West Tower…?

Luckily, I didn’t have to gamble one way or the other: Dumbledore himself strode purposefully down the West Tower staircase straight towards Chiara and me.

“Miss Poe, please fetch Madame Pomfrey from the Feast,” he said. 

“Professor, it’s him,” Chiara wailed. “I saw him.”

“He’s gone now, Chiara,” Dumbledore said, now close enough to wrap a comforting arm around her. 

“How did he find me? _How?”_

“Who?” I interjected.

Dumbledore looked at me piercingly me over his half-moon spectacles. His voice was stern, uncharacteristically so. “Miss Poe, Madame Pomfrey, please. Now.”

I didn’t care that I made a spectacle, sprinting across the Great Hall, wand drawn like a relay racer. I’d heard enough to know: Someone dangerous had breached Hogwarts grounds.

When I told her what happened, Madame Pomfrey immediately swept from the table, the blood drained from her face. I moved to follow her back out, but a warm, firm hand clasped my shoulder.

Sprout. Sitting next to Pomfrey, she’d heard everything, of course. In fact, I was vaguely aware of movement rippling down the entire staff table, as well as the front ends of the Gryffindor and Hufflepuff tables. Perhaps I’d been a tad loud.

“Miss Poe, stay inside the Hall. It’s for your own safety.”

“But, Chiara—”

“Will be quite all right, I promise.” Her eyes softened. “Please.”

It was no secret that I wasn’t Professor Sprout’s favourite student. But the maternal worry on her face welded me in place. Every broken promise I’d made to my mother before leaving Hogwarts marched in a shameful procession across my memory.

I nodded weakly. Professor Sprout gave me a reassuring squeeze.

“Penny’s also out, in the Dungeons. She wanted to put her Hallowe'en costume on, but she forgot something in the dorm.” It was disturbing how fluidly I could already lie to my Head of House. “I want to make sure she’s OK.”

“I’ll check on her,” Sprout said kindly. She gently steered me back to the House Table, but not before I caught a glimpse of Snape’s face. His face was so impassive that a less trained eye might've not noticed the way his hands clutched the side of the staff table, as though anchoring him in place. If even stoic Professor Snape was unnerved by the werewolf, well... This was serious.

Sprout dropped me off at my spot next to Rowan and Tonks. The news seemed to have just travelled down the length of the Hufflepuff table.

“Is it true, Phil? There’s a vampire on school grounds?” Rowan asked.

“Ohhh.” Tonks smacked her forehead. _“Vampire._ I’m such an idiot. I heard ‘campfire.’”

“You both heard wrong. A werewolf.” Rowan and Tonks flinched. My voice quavered, but I went on. “Chiara saw it. Then it attacked her.”

Rowan stifled an involuntary cry. Tonks, for once, wasn’t smiling.

On her way out, Sprout shut and bolted the doors to the Great Hall, ratcheting up the frantic conversations on all sides. But for a long moment, Rowan, Tonks, and I couldn’t bring ourselves to speak.

Rowan jumped in her seat. _“Penny!_ Phil, where—”

“She was with me. We didn’t see it,” I assured her. I wished I could be more resolute. I wished I could say, with certainty, that she was OK.

“You know what this means, right?” Tonks said, her voice husky. “If Chiara’s been bitten…”

Rowan bleakly nodded. She must have been thinking the same. My blood chilled. To be honest, I hadn’t even thought about that. 

The doors unlocked from the inside and swung open. Dumbledore entered the Great Hall, looking regal even under duress. Silence fell like a thick blanket over the entire hall. 

His eyes grazed the hundreds looking expectantly at him. “I will be brief, but direct. There has been a werewolf attack on Hogwarts Grounds.”

Desolate moans intermingled with pitched gasps. Dumbledore continued impassively, as though he hadn't heard a thing.

“Unfortunately, I cannot address everyone’s questions and concerns tonight, but I can assure you of a few things. One is that the victim, whose privacy is paramount, has not contracted lycanthropy from the attack.” 

Tonks’s shoulders went slack in relief. Rowan, however, looked perplexed.

“That doesn’t make sense...” she muttered. Jane swiftly shushed her.

“The other is that we will not rest until the threat of attack is nonexistent. The proper authorities have already been notified, and faculty shall join me tonight in a sweep of the castle grounds.” 

_Proper authorities_. I wondered who Dumbledore referred to.

“All further questions may be directed to your Head of House. However, until further notice, students will be asked to retire to their Common Rooms at the conclusion of dinner — starting tonight.” 

His dictum was met with a chorus of groans. I remembered Jacob telling me and Mum that Hallowe’en was a big party night at Hogwarts, even before You-Know-Who was vanquished. With one sentence, Dumbledore probably thwarted the legendary exploits-to-be of every teenage student at Hogwarts.

“You all may be dismissed.”

The hall rose nearly as one. We filed after Jane, who looked as though she would have held us all in a vice grip if she had enough arms. 

“No post-dinner show, then? Blimey, when I said I was looking forward to a spooky Hallowe’en, I didn’t mean _this_ ,” Tonks whined.

“In case you haven’t noticed, Tonks, we have more important things to deal with at the moment,” I snapped.

“I just don’t get it.” Rowan furrowed her brow. “How can they know for certain Chiara wasn’t turned tonight?”

“Well, Dumbledore himself said it, and he’s slightly smarter than God. I’m inclined to believe him,” Tonks said.

“Yes, but I read that it takes until the next full moon for lycanthropy to be properly diagnosed…” Rowan stalled. “That’s it — _duh_. It’s not a full moon tonight, is it?”

I shrugged. I had no idea, and my thoughts were starting to drift to Penny. Had Professor Sprout found her yet?

“Look.” Rowan pointed out a window facing the courtyard, which answered her own question: A half-moon hung low in the sky, sheathed by silvery clouds. 

“That makes even _less_ sense, though. It has to be a full moon for werewolves to transform. They can’t just do it willy-nilly.” Rowan was getting agitated, as she always did when she couldn’t figure something out. Her consternation would be funny in any other circumstance.

“Are you saying Chiara’s lying, then?” 

“I wouldn’t be surprised, myself,” Tonks grumbled. “She’s shady. Keeping away from the house, skipping class, acting all secretive-like…”

I thought back to how wounded Chiara had been when I made that offhand comment in the Owlery. That wasn’t exactly the face of someone starved for attention.

“I think Chiara is telling the truth,” I said, believing it more once the words actually left my lips. “But I don’t know what it all means, either.”

* * *

That night, I lay awake for what felt like hours. I thought for sure the others would be tossing and turning with me — we were still reeling from a _werewolf attack_ , for Chrissakes, and Penny’s four-poster was still distressingly empty at quarter midnight. Even so, Tonks and Rowan, snorers both, somehow puttered away in their respective beds. 

_Maybe they’re faking it,_ I thought, constellating shapes in the wood above my bed. After all, the secret to falling asleep is just pretending, when you think about it. 

The door clicked open. I sat up quickly enough to catch Penny Deluminating her wand with a whisper.

“Penny!” I spoke as loudly as courtesy would allow. “Where have you been?”

“With Professor Sprout.” 

When she didn’t volunteer any more information, I padded over to her. “Are you all right?”

“Better now. She let me into her office for some hot chocolate and Gobstones.”

I tried to picture old, portly Sprout flinging Gobstones cross-legged on the floor. Penny must have sensed my disbelief, even in the dark. “She’s pretty good, actually.”

“Any news on Chiara? Jane hasn't let us leave the dorm, so I’ve no idea if she’s back…”

“Pomfrey came by and said she’s doing fine, but in shock. Just resting.”

My eyes didn’t take too long to adjust back to the dark. I could see Penny’s white teeth nibbling her bottom lip. She did that whenever she was upset or nervous.

“Phil, Sprout wanted me to tell you something. Something I’ve never told anyone at Hogwarts.”

“Sprout did? What is it?”

She patted the bed next to her. I gingerly sat down. 

“I almost didn’t come to Hogwarts this year.” When Penny finally spoke, her voice was shaky. “That’s because my best friend was killed by a werewolf over the summer.”

We were silent for what felt like eons — a painful silence, heavy and brittle all at once. I knew I was supposed to break it, but how? I thought back to the last silence I’d experienced like it, on the Hogwarts Express with Rowan. 

“What were they like?”

My question took Penny off guard. “Sorry?”

“Your friend. What were they like?”

“Oh.” Her voice shifted in a way that told me she was smiling. I wondered if that's how I'd looked when Rowan asked about Jacob. “She was a she. Scarlett. Every summer, my family and I went to the country. She lived out there year-round. Our cottage was next to their farm, and our families became friends. She was so funny… And a Muggle, you know.”

Penny said that last part almost apologetically. I felt a rush of affection for her.

“All my friends before coming to Hogwarts were Muggles, too. That’s how my parents wanted to keep us safe while You-Know-Who was around."

Penny nodded. “I think my mum thought the same. Especially seeing as my dad’s one, too. That’s why we lived in London. But…” She trailed off. “Even though I was magic, I couldn’t save her, Phil. I couldn’t. I wasn’t powerful enough. Oh, it was stupid!” 

She burst into tears. I thought I might, too. She had _seen_ her friend get killed…? How could that be? Bright, sunny, smiling Penny, as quick with a clever quip as a kind word… 

“We saw it and followed it,” she said, fighting to keep her voice low. “She was curious — thought it was a regular wolf, and she said she'd never seen one before. But I had a feeling... My parents had warned me… The attacks were all over the _Prophet_ that summer.” She sniffled. “She said, she'd even go alone if I was too chicken. Scarlett loved animals… but that was no animal. That was a monster.”

Penny’s voice took on an edge I’d never heard before. I didn't know what to say.

“D’you know why I work so hard at Potions, Phil?” I shook my head. “Because I’m not leaving Hogwarts without brewing myself a Forgetfulness Potion. And that’s a promise.”

"So..."

"So that I can forget. I have to."

I didn’t know what to say. Somehow, though, I understood her completely. I’d promised myself _I_ wouldn’t leave Hogwarts without finding the Cursed Vaults, hadn’t I? But, by the same token, how much easier would my life be if I could just forget about Jacob and the Vaults altogether? 

“Professor Sprout wanted you to tell me all this.” I said it as a statement, not a question. “Why? Why me?”

Penny worked a tissue in her hand. I figured Sprout had sent her off with a fistful of hankies. It seemed like a very Sprout thing to do.

“She asked me who my friends were, because she wanted me to tell somebody about Scarlett. When I mentioned you, she said she thought you were a good friend. Sprout likes you, you know.”

That was certainly news to me. I wondered if there was another, more plausible explanation: that maybe, of all the Hufflepuffs in our year, I was the one who could understand Penny’s loss best. It was different than Jacob, definitely, but somehow the same.

I found my voice. “Thanks, Penny. For telling me everything. I…”

I thumbed through every platitude I’d heard since my brother’s disappearance, hollow sentiments that usually left me cold. I landed on one, the exception. My Aunt Theodosia, the one in County Durham, had written it to me and Mum the week after Jacob went missing.

“My heart hurts for you.”

It wasn’t a lie. It wasn’t a half-truth. It was the real thing. The edges around Penny’s face softened in the cocoon-like darkness of the dorm. I’d like to think she knew it, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apparently the revelation about Scarlett happens in-game during third year, but of course Jam City is a mess when it comes to continuity. IMO it makes more sense if the attack happens before Penny ever got to Hogwarts — you can read her off-the-bat extroversion as sort of forced, or like some kind of coping mechanism. But that's my two cents!


	15. The Lonely Crusade of Cecil Lee

Even the disturbing events on Hallowe’en couldn’t quell the electricity in the halls in the days to follow: Quidditch was starting up. Anything athletic was woefully alien to me — always had been — but I’d have to have lived in a cave not to gather that Gryffindor was playing Slytherin on Saturday. For one, Penny was over the moon about it.

“Oh, I can’t _wait_ ’til the first Hufflepuff match,” she enthused at the House table the day before. “You’ve heard that a Parkin is on our team this year, right? Couldn’t play her first year, on account of her marks. But with her on our team, we’re certain to win the House Cup this year, I just know it!” 

Penny happily shoveled cereal in her mouth. You would have never guessed the same girl had been bawling in the dorms two nights before. I wagered she craved the distraction. 

Chiara, cradling her torso and clinging to our every word, seemed to feel the same. She didn’t strike me as a Quidditch fanatic, but being holed up in the Hospital Wing for twenty-four hours prior probably did a number on her boredom.

“Uh, I hate to be the one to ask,” Rowan said, “but who’re the Parkins?”

Penny gave her a what-for look, and Chiara giggled. I exaggeratedly shot up my hand up like I was in class. 

“Ooh, ooh, I actually know this one.” I cleared my throat. “The Parkins are a big-time Quidditch family. They play for… well, wait. I don’t actually know what team.”

 _“The Wigtown Wanderers!”_ Penny sighed in exasperation. “You all are impossible.”

“And she’s in Hufflepuff?”

“Yes — Skye Parkin.” Penny got a dreamy sort of look on her face. “One time I was in the loo at the same time as her, but I was too shy to say anything… Next time, maybe…”

“That rings a bell,” Rowan said vaguely, then went back to sneaking looks at her History of Magic notes under the table.

“Who d’you wager will win? I hear Slytherin’s team is brilliant this year. But Gryffindor’s had a solid team, too, mostly ’cause of their Seeker. She’s a seventh-year, though. Don’t know what they’ll do without her next year…”

“Er, sorry, Penny, but I don’t think Rowan and I are going to go to the match,” I said awkwardly. “We’ve got lots of studying to catch up on, and—”

“Oh, come _on_ ,” she whined. “You two study more than anyone I know! Can’t you just give it a break for one afternoon?”

Rowan and I glanced at one another. “Studying” had become our alibi for “practising _Flipendo_ until we puked.” I still wasn’t able to cast it consistently, and if running into a werewolf on campus was now a very real possibility, any sliver of time the Common Room or dorms were empty was a godsend we couldn’t pass up.

“Sorry,” Rowan said. “We’re really, really behind.”

Penny huffed, a little tendril of hair dancing off her forehead. “Fine. But you’d better come to the Hufflepuff–Ravenclaw game.”

Penny kept stacking up the odds of a Hufflepuff win the rest of the morning. We had the Parkin girl, but apparently that scrawny git Andre Egwu made the Ravenclaw team and was already touted as its golden boy, news which sent me into a jealous tailspin by the time we got to Charms class. 

It looked like we had a guest: a tall, mustachioed man in a garish purple suit and hat deep in conversation with Flitwick at the front of class. Flitwick — his brow furrowed and a hint of a pained grimace on his face — didn’t look like he was enjoying the man’s company much. 

“As I said earlier, I was rehearsing the Frog Choir at the time of the attack,” Flitwick said, enunciating his words crisply. “I’m afraid I can’t be of much help.”

“Well, have you _ever_ seen a werewolf on school grounds?”

“If I have, respectfully, I’m not sure I would tell you. I believe werewolves are victims of circumstance, and that they should not be trapped, persecuted, or killed. Many, I'm certain, manage their condition quite well. If that philosophy puts me at odds with Ministry dogma, so be it.”

"Dogma? Why, good man, we were talking about werewolves...” 

“Ah, there they are.” Flitwick gestured to the four of us as we entered. “Miss Khanna, you may take a seat. Haywood, Lobosca, Poe — spare a moment?”

When the man turned to face us, a Ministry of Magic badge glinted off his lapel. I gulped. Realistically, did we have a choice?

“So you’re the three students who were skivvy to the werewolf attack. Follow me, then.” His bellowing voice was far too large for the room, causing several of our classmates’ heads to crane our way. I gritted my teeth.

We walked down the hall until we reached the nearest bench. The man lowered himself onto it with an exaggerated groan.

“So,” he said, peeling off his white gloves one by one, “you all were attacked, I hear.”

Chiara shuffled her feet next to me. I clenched my fists in my pockets. “No, sir. Only one of us.”

“Really? Who?” 

Chiara lifted her hand, never raising it past her waist. 

“Ah. No visible disfiguration, I see…”

Chiara mumbled something; a trained ear would have barely picked out “not a full moon” and “my stomach.” The man just nodded vacantly.

“Right, then. Dunderbore suspects the, well, _suspect_ was a werewolf named Fenrir Greyback.” His voice took on a pedantic, cloying quality. “He’s a very, very bad man, you know. Attacks little boys and girls like you.”

“I know.” Chiara and Penny’s simultaneous retort took me aback. It was quite unlike them to wear their frustration on their sleeve.

I cut in. “Who are you, anyway?”

“Ah, pardon me: Cecil Lee, inspector in the werewolf capture unit at the Ministry of Magic.” He tipped his limp-looking bowler. “How do you do.”

“Not very good,” Penny rejoined.

“Quite.” Cecil awkwardly flopped his hat back on. “As I was saying, Greyback is not a force to be reckoned with. It’s tantamount that you three tell me everything you remember from Hallowe’en.”

“There’s not much to say,” Chiara said feebly. “I was going on a stroll on the grounds to clear my head when he and two other werewolves rushed in out of nowhere.”

Cecil fumbled for a pad and quill and belatedly took down what Chiara said — apparently word for word, and then some. We fidgeted as the tip of his quill scratched furiously.

“Yes, yes… and you said he was accompanied by twelve others?”

“Er, no, sir. Two.”

“Ah, so one.”

“No, I— three total; two besides… him.” 

Cecil nodded thoughtfully. “I see.”

“Mr Lee, sir, have you ever faced Fenrir Greyback before?” I asked.

“Yes, Haygood, many times.”

“Poe,” I corrected. “Well, why haven’t you caught him yet?”

Cecil involuntarily shuddered. “Because I’d fancy not being killed, that’s why.”

 _What’s the point of your stupid job, then?_ “Well, Chiara faced him, and she survived,” I said sharply. 

No one acknowledged what I’d said. Cecil sighed and tucked away his notes.

“If there’s one thing I can promise you little ladies, it’s that Greyback won’t elide capture — not this time. But I’ll need your help.” He leaned towards us. “Professor Flitoris tells me you three are the brightest students in your year. Why, you might even be brighter than my nephew Barnaby, and he’s no spring chicken.”

Penny quirked her brow. “Yeah, he’s in our Potions class. He always drinks stuff he’s not supposed to.”

Cecil clucked affectionately. “That sounds like our Barney. Anyhow, if you hear something —” he pointed to his nose — “or see something—” he pointed to his ear— “you be sure to find me, understand? I’ll be patrolling the grounds until Greyback is brought to jurisprudence.”

He let us back into class. Penny and I were suppressing snickers, but Chiara seemed to have retreated into herself.

“Oh, come on, Chiara.” Penny squeezed her around the shoulders. “That man’s mad. It’s the Ministry’s job to hunt werewolves, not ours. Don’t get it in your head to go looking for Greyback.”

She whitened. “Wasn’t planning on it.”

* * *

A huge book slammed in front of me on the Common Room coffee table. I looked up with a start at Rowan, towering over me. She wore the same look as she did the night before a big exam — all laser-like focus and no nonsense.

“It’s not just Greyback, you know.” She crashed next to me on the plush, mustard-colored loveseat facing the door — our favourite perch — and thumbed through hundreds of pages. “Look.” 

She jabbed her wand at an appendix with recent Azkaban arrest records. Practically all of the arrests that year were identified in their notice as individuals who aided or abetted former Death Eaters. Next to a not-inconsequential amount of names was a small W. I traced my finger up to the small species key next to the header. _W = Werewolf._

“Blimey, Rowan, how’d you find this?”

“It’s all the _Daily Prophets_ from 1983,” she said proudly. “There’s much more where that came from, you know. Point is, loads of werewolves were Death Eaters. Even though He Who Must Not Be Named is toast, the others might be planning something.”

I almost didn’t hear her. I was too busy poring over the list, searching for Merula’s parents. “Uh, what makes you think that?” 

“Think about it! Why else would werewolves come onto Hogwarts grounds? That’s a huge risk, seeing as the most powerful wizard in the world lives here.”

“Who?”

Rowan looked like she wanted to smack me upside the head with the tome. “ _Dumbledore_ , dummy!”

“Oh, yeah.” I didn’t see any Snydes on this list. But I had no chance to double-check. Rowan slammed the book shut under my nose.

“Anyway, I’ll keep researching lycanthropy. Also, I think I'll start asking Tonks for her _Prophets_ when she’s done with them. If the Ministry’s getting involved, well… that’s serious business.” She added the book to her pile by the sofa with a dense _thud._ “Onto practise, then?”

“Yeah.” I sprung to my feet. Everyone had filed out of the Common Room for that blasted Quidditch match, at last. 

Like some cruel cosmic joke, the door to the girls’ dorm clicked open right at that moment. Widened eyes met widened eyes, and Chiara demurred.

“Um. Hey.”

“Hi, Chiara,” Rowan and I both intoned, reflexively. 

“Not at the Quidditch match, then?”

“Nor are you,” I shot back. Rowan cringed preemptively.

“Yeah… I figured I’d better stay back to recover some more. Class yesterday was rougher than I expected.” 

Chiara’s response was charitably devoid of spite, even apologetic. I reddened. I could be such an arse sometimes.

“Sorry if I interrupted something. I’ll see you both later.” She hustled out the barrel door, her eyes never leaving the floor. I could just barely make out another letter in her hand. 

Once the door swung safely shut behind her, I turned to Rowan. “Have you noticed that Chiara is always dodgy about the post?”

Rowan shrugged. “Maybe she’s got parents like mine. My mum wants me to write her and Dad every week, and that’s the bare minimum. Between that and classes, I’m starting to run out of parchment...”

We instinctively latched onto that new topic of conversation. Something told me neither of us were ready to entertain the notion that our odd, fragile friend was up to something. Too much had been pulled under our feet as is.


	16. The Longest Farewell

The rest of the year passed more or less without consequence. To Rowan and I’s consternation, Filch followed through on his vow to seal up the fifth-floor corridor, foreclosing any more Vault investigation. The lock on the door was serious business: We’d tried on two separate occasions to get in, but the bolt remained impregnable. 

On the bright side, by the time we sat our first term exams, I could _Rictusempra_ and _Flipendo_ with the best of them — some small solace, seeing as Fenrir Greyback was still at large. Inspector Lee occasionally cropped up in our classes, peppering our instructors with queries and getting perpetually rebuffed. During one memorable Potions session, Cecil kept interrupting class to ask about “Wolfsboon Potion” (whatever _that_ was); Snape, in a rare shining moment, told him he was one more leading question away from getting a jar of flobberworms emptied on his head. After that, the Inspector found fewer reasons to frequent the Dungeons.

For as often as Lee dropped by, I noticed someone else began to drop out: Chiara. In the weeks after Hallowe’en, she missed much more class than she had at the start of term. Of course, that made sense: Surely, she was still traumatised by her run-in with Greyback, and school seemed to become loads more stressful leading up to our first term exams. I couldn’t imagine that being easy on someone with migraines. 

During the first week of December, Sprout collected the names of students staying the Christmas holiday. I was surprised to see Chiara’s name on the list. As I understood it, only students with nowhere to go or bad home lives stayed the holiday, and Chiara talked about her parents glowingly — that is, whenever Chiara actually talked at length, which was increasingly rare. Whatever pall had been cast over her post-attack only worsened as the holidays approached.

I’m ashamed to admit it now, but that year, I wouldn’t have minded swapping places with her. The thought of being alone with Mum in our dingy old maisonette in Canterbury again, even for as short a period as two weeks, made me want to retch. I’d gotten attached to all things Hogwarts, but it wasn’t until I boarded the Hogwarts Express the Friday before Christmas that I realised just how attached I’d gotten. 

It didn’t help that all my roommates sounded as though they were having the holidays of the century. Penny was hosting both sets of grandparents at her family home in central London (posher than expected), while Tonks wouldn’t shut up about how much she was looking forward to her family’s outback expedition in Australia (about as posh as expected, but nonetheless maddening). Rowan wasn’t rich, but I still envied her for having enough positive associations with home that she actually looked forward to Christmas. 

On the Hogwarts Express to London, Rowan was five minutes into a monologue how excited she was to see her cat Fuzzclaw when Penny cut in. “And what’re you planning for the holidays, Phil?” 

“Not much, probably, seeing as my Mum celebrates Hanukkah if she feels like celebrating anything at all. Guess I’ll let you know when we get back.” I shoved my cheeks full of Cauldron Cake, effectively ending the conversation.

“Did you lot see that Chiara is the only one in the House staying behind for Christmas besides Jane? That’ll be gas, won't it?” Tonks was trying to _Leviosa_ Bertie Bott’s Every Flavour Beans into her mouth one by one, but every so often one went rogue and whizzed at us in a way that didn’t seem entirely accidental.

“I saw. What do you all reckon that’s about? Plus all the classes she’s been missing?” I swatted away an errant bean and glared at Tonks. “Serious answers only.”

Penny was knitting a hat in her lap — a gift for a grandparent, but I couldn’t remember which. “Not a clue, but between us, Professor Snape’s starting to take it _very_ personally.”

“Yeah, ’cause he’s a self-centered git,” I grumbled.

Tonks nearly spat out the beans she was eating. “Penny, does Snape… _talk_ to you? Like, outside of class?”

“Duh. He’s the faculty adviser for the Potions Club.” She rolled her eyes, as if we should have known. “He pulled me aside a few weeks ago to ask if I knew what was going on with Chiara. I told him I didn’t know, and he got worried—”

 _“Worried?!”_ Tonks was having a full-on conniption. 

Penny reddened. “Well, y’know, in his way. Like, angry-worried. Anyway, he must have talked to her, because she started coming to Potions again. Haven’t you noticed?”

Truthfully, I hadn’t — at least, not Potions in particular. But come to think of it, she’d been returning to Herbology regularly, too, which was the block just before.

“Maybe she needs to sleep late sometimes, on account of her condition?” I searched everyone’s faces. “Rowan, what do you think?”

Rowan didn’t respond, uncharacteristically quiet. She was staring intently at Penny’s knitting.

“Rowan? Earth to Rowan?”

She fidgeted in her seat. “I feel sort of bad talking about Chiara behind her back. Can we change the subject?” 

Tonks scowled, but acquiesced with a shrug. “Fine by me. I was bored anyway.” 

A Bertie Bott’s Bean pinged off Rowan’s glasses.

* * *

If Rowan begged me once, she’d begged me a million times: She was desperate that our parents meet on Platform 9 ¾ for the holiday, and I _dreaded_ the thought. Rowan’s parents weren’t intimidating, surely, but they seemed the polar opposite of my mother — warm, approachable, and cheery where she was terse, distant, and mopey. And Merlin forbid they find out what she did for a living... 

Hopefully, we wouldn’t get that far. Mum had a deer-in-headlights quality about her that inevitably ground conversation to a halt. In her own strange way, she’d converged with Jacob — or, at least, the way he used to act before Hogwarts. He only grew out of it while she grew into it.

“You coming, Phil?” Rowan backed out of the compartment, jostling her bags into some grumpy-looking Ravenclaws. My lone suitcase had never felt so supremely heavy. 

“Coming.” 

Steam swathed the platform, rendering everyone and their families into vaguely humanoid shapes. Penny hugged each of us goodbye and bounded towards two trim silhouettes; Tonks merely vanished. 

“There they are!” Rowan pointed at a purple light, rotating like a tiny lighthouse. “That’s our signal. Come on, Phil!” 

Mr and Mrs Khanna materialised out of the fog, accompanied by Rowan’s little sister in a stroller. Yet again, Mrs Khanna looked as graceful as Mr Khanna was rumpled.

“Rowan, plum!” Mr Khanna bounced on his heels excitedly; I was reminded, absurdly, of Muggles and their Slinky toys. 

Mrs Khanna got to her daughter first, wrapping her in a big hug. “How was the train?”

“Good! Well, except the bogie Bertie Bott’s Bean I got in my eye.” (Rowan’s parents traded a look; I imagine they decided not to ask.) She waved at the stroller. “Hi, Maya!”

“Philippa. How do you do?” Mr Khanna tipped his very starched pointed hat. 

“Dad, how many times do I have to tell you! It’s _Phil_.”

“’Ope, pardon.” He tipped it twice more.

Rowan started piling her bags in a luggage cart. "Where's Ash?"

"He's having a bit too much fun up a walnut tree." Mr Khanna grinned bashfully. "I trust he's all right, though. Brought a pile of books up there with him. What is it Muggles say? The apple doesn't fall far from the tree...?"

Mrs Khanna frowned. "What do apples have to do with anything?"

“I'll explain later. I have _so_ much to tell you both — but first, there's somebody I want you to meet," Rowan said breathlessly. She looked around the platform. “Say, Phil, where’s your mum?”

I peered through the vapour. Where _was_ my mum? Most of the shapes rushed forward to receive their kin, but none came for me.

I shrugged. I tried to pretend I didn't see Mr and Mrs Khanna's nervous glances.

"Well... You reckon you should look for her, then?" When I hesitated, Rowan tacked on, quite unnecessarily: "We'll wait here."

I nodded and set off. Bodies moved all around me, and Rowan’s voice echoed in my ears. _Where’s your mum… Where’s your mum…_

_“Where’s Jacob?”_

_The day after New Year’s — the Hogwarts calendar was particularly unforgiving that year. We were seeing Jacob off at the Hogwarts Express, and Mum was vying to get a glimpse of him from the platform._

_“He always sits on this side of the train, doesn’t he?” Her voice pitched a little. Every holiday, every year, I forgot how much these goodbyes meant to her._

_“Maybe they ran out of seats.” I wasn’t fretting nearly as much about getting a final peek of my brother. Rather, I was preoccupied with sweet visions of myself on that train. Just nine more months..._

_“No, no, they wouldn’t have.” Mum paced the platform, peering at the windows. “Where is that boy...?”_

_Just as she walked away, Jacob popped up in the window right in front of me. It was almost like he’d planned it, a proverbial wink between the two of us. Wide eyes met wide eyes, and, like mirror images of one another, we waved._

_“Here he is, Ma,” I called. She came galloping over, beaming at him dotingly. Jacob froze up, looking a little sheepish. His mates in the compartment were probably ribbing him, as teenagers do._

_With a great whistle, the train began to move, and Mum alongside. I kept to her heels. I knew what came next. It was our family tradition._

_Before Jacob and I were born, back when they were Ilvermorny professors, Mum and Dad hosted exchange students from Mahoutokoro. They had a grand time with the blokes — so grand that Mum and Dad decided they wouldn’t mind having kids, after all — but most memorably, they taught Mum their custom of long farewells. The idea is, whenever you say goodbye to someone, you’re supposed to watch them leave until they’re not visible anymore. It doesn't matter how long it takes: You have to stand and watch until they vanish out of sight._

_So, every time the Hogwarts Express pulled away with Jacob in it, Mum and I walked alongside the train. Then jogged. Then ran. We would keep Jacob in our line of sight until we reached the very end of the platform, and that year, we waved and laughed like madmen. We watched the train, everything and nothing passing between us, ’til all you could see of it was the trail of steam in its wake._

_It was the last time either of us saw Jacob._

My feet did the walking for me until I couldn’t hear Rowan’s family — nor any other family, really. As I approached the end of the platform, I could make out a huddled mass melting out of the haze. It was smaller than I remembered, more frail-looking. But its hiccoughing sob was all too familiar.

“Ma?” 

There she was: frizzy, greying, waist-length hair haphazardly bobby-pinned, strands of it swirling around her temples. The lines on her face stood out starkly through the steam, but her eyes looked colourless, even though I knew they weren’t. That’s because they were my eyes. Jacob’s eyes. 

She hobbled to her feet, wrapping her shawl tighter around her brittle body.

“Ah, Philippa, dear. Forgive me, I…” She dabbed at her eyes, her wrists the boniest I’d ever seen them. “I just came here… couldn’t think of anywhere else to stand… But I knew you’d find me.” She attempted a feeble smile.

My voice sounded like a stranger’s. “Can we leave?”

After a moment’s hesitation, my mother nodded, trembling all over. She linked her arm in mine; I instinctively yanked mine away.

“I’m sorry,” she said, a little defensively. “This was harder than I expected.”

I stared at the ground, willing it to swallow me whole. _For me, too, Ma. For me, too._


	17. Gone Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for such a long wait between chapters... More work started coming my way (a positive!), and whenever I got to writing, I found myself writing ahead, rather than chronologically. Hopefully I'll get the next chapter up sooner rather than later, but it'll probably need a couple once-overs. :-) 
> 
> Happy holidays to you and yours, and good riddance, 2020!

I knew something was off the moment I stepped through the threshold of our flat. 

First, to paint a picture: At our flat in Canterbury, you enter through the sitting room, where Jacob and I used to build our blanket fort. I couldn’t believe how small and quaint it looked — the old-fashioned upholstered chairs, the grandfather clock, the vintage buffet made by some religious group in America. Then, there’s the hearth where we keep most of our family photos.

 _Kept,_ I guess. That December afternoon, I noticed with a jolt that practically all of them were gone. The last time I’d seen the mantelpiece this sparse was after Dad left, when Mum got 'round to pruning all the pictures with him in it. No doubt they’re in some rubbish heap now, mouldering. 

My mother mumbled to herself about something as she lugged my bag upstairs. I took her absence as an opportunity to survey the photos closer. Me and Mum fidgeting in front of Stonehenge, baby me writhing in embarrassing, lacy dress robes… And that was it. Why these two?

It wasn’t just the hearth. Everywhere, the walls looked yawningly blank. The only remaining frames seemed to have chosen at random. The painting Aunt Theo made us of Edinburgh Castle when we moved from there to Canterbury three years ago, bewitched so the leaves stirred and bird-shaped smudges fluttered across the canvas; her sketch of Durham Cathedral, too, which brightened and darkened with the sky; then, as a stark contrast, my stupid Muggle school photos, eerily statue-like…

Mum’s flat-footed steps announced her return; I rushed to the landing. “Where’re all the pictures with Jacob in them?” I demanded.

She flinched at his name, dropping eye contact. “Sweetie, I…”

“Where are they?”

“Not three minutes in this house and you’re already interrogating me." Mum wordlessly hardened behind some invisible shell, just as she had at King’s Cross. “You wouldn’t understand — what it’s been like here without anyone, not a soul…”

“So you tossed his pictures?” Her jaw worked to respond, but I couldn’t take it another moment. “This is why I don’t want anyone at Hogwarts to meet you, ever! They said _he’s_ mad, but the only mad one is you!”

I stormed past her up the stairs and slammed the door to my room. At least nothing had changed here: It was still the same, my twin bed even unmade from the last time I’d slept in it. Mum had set my suitcase on my bed, ready to unpack, but one look at it gave me cold feet. I heaved it vindictively on the floor. It was going to be a long two weeks, sure, but just two weeks nonetheless. I wouldn’t get too comfortable.

I flopped on the bed and stared at the lumpy drywall ceiling. Jacob and I used to spot absurd designs in it, like cloud-watching. We’d point them out to one another.

I heaved on my side, facing my small bookshelf. Jacob had one of his own, the same size and orange-stained wood as mine. We considered both communal libraries: He was welcome to anything off my shelves, and I was welcome to his. There were even a couple gaps on the shelves, where he’d “checked out” books and hadn’t returned them.

I flopped on my other side. This was ridiculous. I hadn’t realised how much everything in this house reminded me of Jacob until I’d been away from it.

Even though I’d turned my back on the bookshelf, its gaps kept nagging at me. I knew where the books were: They were part of a looming, precarious pile on Jacob’s nightstand, where he ordered the titles he was going to read in an interminable queue. I bit my lip. If Mum had tossed his photos, had she tossed anything else in his room?

I agonised over the thought until I could hardly take it anymore. I listened at the door to make sure my mother wasn’t out in the hall — I still couldn’t bear to look at her — and padded out on socked feet.

The door to Jacob’s room swung open with its familiar creak. My breath caught in my throat, bracing for the worst, then slid out in relief. His bedroom looked the same as it ever was, which is to say disastrous. Balled-up socks dotted the floor, and parchment spilt over the surface of his desk in the corner (but no letter that we could find — we’d checked, obviously). Maps, one of Jacob’s many obsessions, papered nearly every square inch of the walls, some now peeling at the corners. His book tower looked as Pisan as ever, miraculously still standing even though my entrance sent it teetering. 

I stepped inside. Was it just me, or did the room still smell like him, even? I tried to remember what he smelled like. Baby powder, mainly… or was that just when he was little?

Feeling self-conscious the whole time, I leaned over his pillow to smell it, then stopped. One long hair laid on the pillowcase, dark against the white-striped flannel. I picked it up between my fingers. Mum’s. Did she sleep in here sometimes? If so, I understood why she did it. Even so, something about the act seemed profane. Jacob’s room was a time capsule, a shrine; sleeping here only mucked it up. I flicked it to the floor angrily.

A booming noise, followed by a horrific, metallic rattle made me nearly jump out of my skin. I pulled away from the bed and reflexively reached for my wand. It wasn’t on me; I’d left it on my bedstand. Without thinking, I galloped downstairs, unarmed.

“Ma! Ma, are you OK?” 

Instead of my Mum, though, two soot-covered strangers writhed in the living room: a woman in very posh, old-school formal robes — now noticeably stained — and a marshmallow of a boy who looked and dressed like a tiny Winston Churchill. Our fireplace grate, punched through, rocked on the floor near the foyer.

My mum tumbled in like a dervish. “Oh, Augusta, I’m so, so, _so_ sorry! I was picking up my daughter from school, and I… Well, never mind. Here, let me… Oh, OK, you’ve got it? Well, then. Can I fetch you some water? Some tea?”

The woman straightened, dusting herself off. She looked remarkably hen-like, probably accentuated by the fact that she had a literal stuffed bird perched on her pointed hat. “We’re _quite_ fine, thank you,” she huffed, her voice icy. The woman was capable of a sneer to rival Snape’s. Her eyes flickered to me. “Who is that?”

My mum’s eyes flickered up to me. “Why, that’s my daughter, Philippa. She just got back from her first year at Hogwarts.”

Miss Hen looked at me up and down and grunted. “Well, then. You received my letter a fortnight ago about the boy’s, ah, _special case?_ ”

Ma peered at the little boy, who was quaking even more than she. He was, by far, the youngest student I’d ever seen in our house. I wondered if Mum had made an exception by taking him on, or if she was tutoring kids that young now to make ends meet. She slowly nodded, comprehension dawning on her sunken face.

“Yes, yes, of course.” She kneeled down, her tone taking on the warmth and pliancy of melted honey. “Neville, dear? Do you know why you’re here today?”

The cherubesque boy’s flush deepened. He only nodded. I couldn’t see his eyes from his angle, but even so, I was almost certain they were brimming with tears.

“Can you tell me why you think you’re here today?” I had to admit, Mum had a way with kids. For as batty as Mum was now, Jacob and I liked talking to her more than Dad growing up. She treated us like people.

The pudgy boy sniffled pitifully. “I’m not magic.”

“Oh, we don’t know if that’s true, dear,” my mother cooed. “We’re all magic, you know, just in different ways. I’m Bethany. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” She straightened Neville’s garish little vest. “You and I are going to work together to try to help you find your magic in all the ways I know how, all right?”

The horrible hen’s eyes narrowed. “You said you have a one-hundred percent success rate, didn’t you?”

“I said my clients have a hundred percent pass rate on their OWLs.” Mum pushed herself up with a sigh, then squeezed Neville’s shoulder. She lowered her voice. “I’ll do my best working with your grandson, Mrs Longbottom, but as I told you, I usually work with children ten years his senior…”

“At the rate you’re charging, your best had better be more than enough,” the woman hissed. She hobbled her way over to one of the chairs, not seeming to care that the boy could hear her. God, I hated when grownups did that. 

“Philippa, dear?” Mum used the same buttery voice. “Some privacy, if you don’t mind?”

I cast Neville a sympathetic look and trudged back upstairs. 

* * *

I holed up in my room until I was sure the terrible woman and her grandson had left, and then some. But when the unmistakable scent of chicken pie — my favourite, and one of Mum’s old family recipes — wafted up through the vents, I broke down and headed downstairs to investigate.

I didn’t want Mum to think all was pat and forgiven, but I’d also felt waves of affection hearing the familiar cadence of her teaching voice carry through the house. Her tutoring sessions used to bug me in my primary school days, back when I worked on meaningless Muggle schoolwork — a trivial concern that felt as distant to me now as, well, the Australian outback. I desperately missed overhearing Mum’s lessons, which was rather odd. They used to be a shameful reminder of how low my mother had to stoop since she lost her job at Ilvermorny. Now, I was just happy to see _some_ segment of Mum’s life carry on like normal. 

I poked my head in the kitchen. Mum was deep in thought, surveying three different bottles of red wine suspended before her. I missed this, too — the way grownup wizards ostentatiously used magic for the most quotidian tasks. Our professors did it, but only the older students were skilled enough to do things like open a door without touching it, or _Leviosa_ a Cab. (Not that they were allowed to have wine on school grounds.)

“Smells good.”

Mum yelped, and the bottles went crashing to the ground. Two clanked harmlessly off the linoleum floor, but one shattered in a spray of viscera and glass.

“Philippa, God dammit!” She gave her wand an agitated flick; the bottle repaired itself, its burgundy contents safe inside. Maybe her tutoring session had been more stressful than anticipated. Even on good days, though, nothing set Mum off more than when something came between her and her wine. 

“No big deal, clearly,” I mumbled.

“Well, it wouldn’t be if I’d swept this floor anytime recently. Going to have dust mites and Merlin knows what else floating in my glass…" Mum grumbled. "That was an expensive bottle from France, too, from Bertrand and Theodosia...”

“It still _is,”_ I said snobbishly. “You literally just fixed it.”

“Who raised you to argue, argue, argue? It wasn’t me, that’s for damn sure.”

Well, so much for familial bliss. I seethed at the dinner table, hateful comebacks singeing my tongue. By the time Mum served us up, picked a wine (it wasn’t even the French label, to my chagrin), and sat across from me at the little table in the kitchen, I’d smithed my spite into a pointed question. 

“Should I just go back to Hogwarts early this year? Sounds like you don’t want me around.”

I could hear Mum’s fork clink against the plate. Even without looking at her, I knew she was giving her what-for face: cocked to one side, brows drawn, chin jutting out.

“Philippa, I— Of course I want you to stay. Desperately.” She paused, then resumed poking at the pie I knew she’d never finish. “You already know, if it were up to me, I wouldn’t want you going back to that school at all…”

“I like it there. So did Jacob.” I was more or less stabbing my food, impatiently watching steam rise from the cratered crust. “Hogwarts is the happiest place that exists. I’m tired of being unhappy.”

My words steeped the air between us for a long time. Then, she reached out a bony, blue-veined hand, setting it on my tablecloth.

“I understand. And I’m sorry I didn’t see you off in September. It was an abhorrent thing to do. I just…” She wrapped her shawl tighter round her and shuddered. “I don’t know if I can ever go to King’s Cross again without breaking down. Diagon Alley, too. It reminds me too much of him.”

I waited for her to say more, but it never came. I wanted some acknowledgment of how hard it had to have been for _me_ ; that it wasn’t exactly a walk in the park for me, either, to retrace my brother’s footsteps, and to do it all alone. But the alternative — not being able to go to Hogwarts and walk the very same halls he did — was so, so much worse. I thought of the Ravenclaw Common Room, and a familiar queasy-angry feeling bloomed in my gut. 

I never took her hand, but my silence must have been taken as some sort of benediction, because Mum withdrew her arm, smiled, and nibbled, sparrowlike, at her food. “I especially want you to stay because I need your help with something.”

“What is it?”

She tented her long fingers. “We’re going to be hosting a, ah, guest on Tuesday. Someone important. I think she may be able to help us contact your brother.”

My seat creaked as I leaned forward in it. “Really? How? Who? Where is he, d’you know? Why didn’t you _tell me—”_

She shushed me about a million times. “No, no, I don’t know where he is. And I hope he’s not somewhere this person can contact him. But if she can, then…” She twiddled her napkin on her lap. “At the very least we can say goodbye.”

I looked at her. I was acutely aware of the sound of our neighbour’s laundry machine clanking through the walls. “What do you mean?”

She exhaled, looking at the ceiling, and dabbed her eyes. “Philippa, dear: I want you to take some deep breaths with me first before I tell you. Ready? In, and count to three…” 

“No, I’m not doing that. I’ve told you before, whenever we do breathing the suspense just makes it worse _—”_

“Well, I’m not going to tell you until you breathe with me.”

“Well, how am _I_ supposed to help you with whatever it is unless you tell me?”

Mum glared, then snorted one mucusy nostril. “Fine. I’ve hired a medium.”

I blinked. I wasn’t following. “A… medium?”

“A medium, yes. I’ve hired one who works down on King Street. She is to help us commune with Jacob’s spirit, in the event that he has…” Her breath caught. “…gone on to another plane.”

It still took me a moment to absorb the full impact of her words. “Wait, like a psychic?” When she nodded, I braced my palms against the table, sending my milk and Mum’s wine sloshing. _“Are you mad?”_

My mum’s eyes widened, clearly offended. “You seem to think I am, yes. We’ve well established that, haven’t we?” 

“Mum, psychics are phonies! They just swindle stupid Muggles out of their money! You’ve told me so yourself!”

“I met this woman; she’s different!” Mum countered. “I know a true mystic when I see one… someone full of divine energy… She said she’ll lead us in a séance for a discounted rate; just a hundred seventy pounds—”

 _“A hundred seventy pounds!”_ I felt lightheaded. I certainly wasn’t hungry anymore.

“A small price to pay to talk to Jacob again!”

“I can’t believe this. I _won’t;_ I won’t do it. I won’t talk to a dumb _Muggle_ about Jacob—”

“She’s not a Muggle, don’t be stupid,” Mum scoffed.

“Oh, yeah? How do you know?”

“I asked her, naturally.”

“But did she, like, do magic for you? Any magic at all?”

Mum blinked. “It would have been rude to ask. Why on earth would someone lie about that?”

I roared in frustration. “Are we even going to have money left over for the holidays? You wrote me and said my Hanukkristmas gift was going to be waiting for me at home as a surprise.”

Mum looked at me as though I were the loony one. “This _is_ the surprise.” 

“You’re joking.”

“How could I hope to get you a gift any better than this? At best, we find out Jacob is alive; at worst, we get to speak with him again.”

 _I think there’s another possibility here you’re not considering,_ I retorted silently.

“Please.” Mum folded her hands, as though praying. “I’ve run out of options. I know it sounds mad—”

“Because it is!”

“—but I need to know we’ve exhausted all our options. I still haven’t heard from the Ministry; nothing at all.” Mum wiped her face with the heel of her hand. “I would have told you in an owl if I’d heard anything, Philippa, anything at all. Please believe me. We’re past hiding things. No more secrets in this family.”

“Well, you didn’t tell me you spent all that money on a— a— whatever they’re called—”

“I haven’t spent all the money yet,” she snapped. “I’ll pay the rest Tuesday. But first, promise me you’ll be there. Bertrand and Theodosia are already planning to be there, but she said séances aren’t, erm, effective with too few participants.”

“Uncle Bertrand?” My sarcastic, shrewd, highly rational uncle in Durham? I tried to imagine him at a séance, his leonine frame crammed in one of our wicker dining chairs. It wasn’t computing. “Really?”

She looked at me sternly. “Yes, _really_. Without you, it’ll just be the three of us.”

Geez. What kind of holiday present guilted you into participation? Seeing the look on my Mum’s face appealed to whatever vestiges of pity I felt for her; on the other hand, the idea of sitting down to a séance boiled my blood beyond all imagining. 

I swallowed down my fury, sinking back into my seat. “Fine. I’ll be there, but only if they actually come.” I stabbed at the pie some more. “And _don’t_ expect me to like it.”


	18. The Séance

_When I was little, I was too afraid to open my eyes underwater. I thought it would hurt. Then, finally, when I was eight or nine, Jacob convinced me to give it a try at the community pool Dad used to take us to, one of the summers we were masqueraded as Muggles in the Berkshires. I leapt off the diving board, waited till I sunk to the bottom, then prised my eyes open. I’ll never forget that moment, seeing everything suffused in bright turquoise. It was strangely beautiful, like floating inside a snowglobe._

_That’s how I felt now, setting down the fifth-floor corridor. Hogwarts was still — the stillest I’d seen it since the night Chiara was attacked, actually. Even though it was nighttime, the walls glowed as though illuminated. A full moon. I wondered how long it had been since curfew._

_I reached the iron-bolted door at the end of the hall. Instead of being obstinately locked, it swung open with a mere swish of my wand. I paced through, then immediately slipped. Something slick coated the ground — and I felt a chill, a terrible, terrible chill — a coldness I’d never felt before…_

_Clink. Clink._

_I looked up. Something was clanking down the corridor. It was getting closer… closer…_

_CLINK! CLINK! CLINK!_

I sat bolt upright, doused in cold sweat. Grey daylight seared through my bedroom windows; I’d forgotten to draw the curtains before bed. Searing through, too, was the unblinking yellow gaze of our old family owl, Walt. He pecked impatiently at the glass.

_CLINK CLINK CLINK._

“All right, all right, I’m coming.” I rubbed at my eyes and let him in. The horned owl dumped a package and an envelope at my desk and promptly winged back out. Not exactly warm and fuzzy, our Walt. 

One letter I recognised right away — it was my father’s handwriting. He usually sent his Hanukkristmas gift on Christmas Eve; it was a touch late this year. I opened it ravenously and gasped. _A Walkman!_ It was a couple years old and a little clunky in comparison to Tonks’s sleek model. But who was I to complain? It was a real, actual, honest-to-goodness Walkman _._ He’d also enclosed two tapes: _Thriller_ , plus one called “Legends of Rock” that looked sort of old-timey. Both were wrapped with a note. 

> _A little something to get you started. Happy Holidays. — Dad._

“Wicked,” I breathed. Dad’s gifts were usually wildly off the mark, but he’d really outdone himself this time. He’d managed to find the one Muggle gizmo I gave two ounces about. 

I set it aside and snagged the second envelope. Someone had drawn a little Christmas tree next to my name. I shred it open, nearly tearing the photograph that tumbled out. A blond, good-looking family stood in front of a stately, well-appointed fireplace. 

I recognized Penny with a jolt, her arm slung around her miniature. That must be her little sister, Bea. I scanned the handsome faces with renewed curiosity. Penny looked a whole lot like her mum, and her dad was a dead ringer for Gilderoy Lockhart. It was hard to believe he was just a Muggle. I flipped the picture over.

> _Dear Phil,_
> 
> _Happy Holidays! Every year we take Christmas photos to send to friends. Well you’re my friend now. So there! ☺︎ Miss you!_
> 
> _Love,_
> 
> _Penny_

I ran my thumb over those last two words, then excitedly sat down to write her a response. I hadn’t even thought to reach out to my friends over winter hols, but letter-writing was just the thing to ease my nerves ahead of the day’s horrors. I’d already scratched out half my message to Penny when I realised two somewhat mortifying things: first, my message was already twice as long as her original to me, and second, I didn’t have a photo to enclose. 

_Maybe you and Ma should take one,_ a voice inside my head chirped. I shook my head vigorously, even though I was alone in my room. No way.

I circled my room, looking for something sufficiently thoughtful to enclose. My eyes fell on a little dish atop my bookshelf, full of tiny shells and stones. I smiled, my heart fit to burst. Perfect.

I wet my quill again and kept writing.

> _Penny,_
> 
> _Thank you for writing me. I like the photo you sent. How tall is your tree? How old is B?_
> 
> _Let me know your favourite thing you got for Christmas. Mine is a Walkman my dad sent. Now Rowan can borrow mine instead of Tonk’s._
> 
> _Mum and I don’t have a Christmas photo but I have this shell from Yellowcraig Beach. Before we lived in Canterbury, we lived in Edinburgh and we once visited there for a week-end. I collected a bunch of shells and I keep them in my room still. It was the prettiest place I’ve ever seen in real life. (Besides Hogwarts)_
> 
> _I’m going to listen to my Walkman now. I miss you too._
> 
> _Lots of love,_
> 
> _Phil_

Following the manual, I popped the first cassette into my Walkman and pressed Play. The walls of my ears throbbed with the synth beat; I imagined a tiny taiko drummer pounding on my eardrums. I winced. This would take some getting used to. But Rowan seemed to like it, after all.

 _Rowan_. Obviously, if I was writing Penny, I had to write her, at the very least to apologise for my vanishing act at King’s Cross. I dabbed my quill again and reached for another strip of parchment, scribbling off a quick sorry and telling her all about the Walkman. I promised to ride back to Hogwarts with her, but I knew better than to promise anything by way of our parents, seeing as Mum never wanted to go to Platform 9¾ ever again.

I was on a roll now. The more letters I wrote, the better I felt. Who else was left? Ben? I’d never tried to send an owl to someone living with Muggles, though; I wasn’t positive that would go over well. I nibbled the end of my Sugar Quill. _Who else, who else…_

An answer dropped, anvil-like, into my lap. _Chiara_. For as much as I still envied her for staying at Hogwarts, she’d seemed to be miserable at the prospect. Figures, too — it was probably lonely with just our pouty Prefect around. 

I started writing, haltingly. I didn’t know Chiara as well, so I wasn’t totally sure what to say.

> _Dear Chiara,_
> 
> _Happy Christmas! How are things at Hogwarts?_
> 
> _I am ok in Canterbury. My dad sent me a Walkman for Hanukkah/Christmas. (Not a fancy one like Tonk’s.) He also gave me some tapes._
> 
> _What is Christmas like there? Maybe I’ll stay next year. Let me know if you’re doing it again next holiday._
> 
> _If I don’t hear from you before New Year, I’ll see you back at school then._
> 
> _Your friend,_
> 
> _Phil_
> 
> _P.S. I heard Jane is there, too. Is she being a @#* &, or are things alright? _

I surveyed my letter. That was an all right thing to send, I supposed, so long as it didn’t end up in Jane’s hands.

I poked my head out the window and made some clicking noises. Mum could summon Walt better than I could; after a few tries, I got him to swoop back over to the sill.

“Take these to the Khanna tree farm, the Haywoods in London, and to Hogwarts,” I said. Walt rapped on the windowpane again. “No, I don’t have treats, sorry. Ask Mum.”

He hooted indignantly and took off. I waited a moment to shut the window again. Christmas was one of the few days I could recognise purely based on the way Muggles acted out on the street. They honked their car horns at total strangers and waved; they traveled in groups and sang from house to house. Even the tough-looking punks who smoked on the corner mysteriously disappeared, as though they suddenly found somewhere to be. 

I let the frigid air seep inside my room. Perhaps if I kept it open long enough, the wind might blow some of the world’s cheer into our miserable household. But I only got cold hands. I slammed it shut soon enough.

I headed downstairs for some eggnog, bouncing my head along to the _Thriller_ cassette. I was digging in the fridge when my headphones were swiftly and unceremoniously yanked off my ears.

“—the name of Merlin’s beard is this?” my mother squawked.

I snatched them back. “A gift from Dad.” 

Mum’s eyes flashed disapprovingly. She peered at the headphones in my hand. “Is that horrid noise coming from those things?”

“It’s _music_ , Ma.”

“And you put them over your ears?”

“Yeah.”

She tutted. “Muggles are always inventing new and creative ways to self-harm, aren’t they?”

If she’d said the same thing to me now, I would have quipped that there was more where _that_ came from, seeing as her “medium” was about to be exposed as a fraud in front of four real-life wizards. But I fumbled for the words, and besides, a bang and a clatter from our living room made us jump to attention.

“Who is it?” Mum called.

“Who else?”

We scurried into the living room, where a man and a woman struggled to their feet, coughing little black puffs. The man shook his tousled mane, sending more ash scattering, and pushed herself up to his full, formidable height. 

I always registered shadows of Jacob and I’s features on Uncle Bertrand’s face with some disbelief, because I didn’t like to think that we looked alike. He looked a bit like an overgrown bird of prey, with deep-set eyes and wedge-shaped nose. His heavy brows were nearly always drawn together like something vexed him. He might have managed to look a little intimidating, if he hadn’t always been just Uncle Bertrand. He certainly wasn’t intimidating now, covered in fireplace guts and nursing an ever-expanding Butterbeer belly. 

Much more inviting was the woman unfurling next to him. Aunt Theo was every bit as warm as Bertrand was moody. She beamed radiantly despite the mess. It was like Lady Di traded places with a chimney sweep for a day.

“Uncle Bertrand! Aunt Theo!” I cried. My old instinct to wrap my arms around them tugged me forward, even though I would have gotten an armful of soot and a glower from Uncle Bertrand, who wasn’t much of a hugger.

He patted off his leather jacket and trousers — a little pointlessly, seeing as they were both black anyway. “Bethany, why in Godric’s name did you put up a damned _fire grate_ if you don’t use this fireplace for anything but Flooing?”

“It looks nice! Anyway, _you’re_ the one who’s fifteen minutes early.” 

Oh, I’d forgotten all about this. Mum and Uncle Bertrand squabbled like schoolchildren every time they were together. Thank goodness Jacob and I were far enough apart in age to avoid such a thing. 

“What he means to say is, Thank you so much for thinking of us, dear,” Theo said. “I know it couldn’t have been easy to ask.”

“Oh, well, you know… Come now, sit and I’ll get you something. Tea? Coffee?”

“Whatever you and Phil are having is just fine—”

“Coffee, no sugar, no cream.” Uncle Bertrand said, splaying into an armchair in the living room. The last time I’d seen him in the sitting room had been shortly after Jacob had gone missing, and even then, I’d been struck by how his limbs, usually so stiff, went all akimbo in that chair — arm flung over the chair’s back, leg dangling over the chair’s arm. It was the posture of someone who’d whiled away many adolescent hours in that seat. When my grandparents passed away, Mum took her pick of the family furniture in Durham, lording her seniority over Uncle Bertrand. In truth, she was just twenty minutes older. 

As I said: like children, those two.

Aunt Theo enveloped me in her arms. She always wore the same perfume. It smelt of spring flowers and green apple skins. “Philippa, dear, how are you? Can it be possible that you’re _twelve_ now? Is that right?”

I grinned sheepishly. “Yeah, I’m twelve.”

“Well, how about that. So, when’s your bat mitzvah? We’ll mark our calendars posthaste.”

I flushed and warily glanced in Mum’s direction. “Uh… We haven’t talked about it, really.”

“Jacob was mitzvahed, wasn’t he?” A guttural noise emanated from the armchair. “What? He was!”

I’d also forgotten this: Aunt Theo was the only person in the family who wasn’t afraid to talk about Jacob. It made Mum wilt and Bertrand bristle, but I rather appreciated it. Even the merest passing mention of him had become taboo, seemingly overnight. 

“Yeah. But with Jacob… gone, and everything, we just haven’t really thought about it,” I mumbled.

Aunt Theo’s eyes softened. “Well, sure. But it’s a beautiful thing, you know, officially becoming a woman in front of everyone you love…”

If I had my way, truth be told, I’d rather put off “becoming a woman” as long as humanly possible. I blushed and smiled weakly, unsure what to say.

“Maybe I’ll ask Bethany, then — later. She can’t have just _forgotten…_ ”

Uncle Bertrand’s eyes snapped to Aunt Theo. “Drop it,” he growled.

“Well, OK, what about school? Your first term done already — my goodness. How does it feel?”

“Really good, actually. I’m getting top marks in all my classes,” I chirped.

Aunt Theo’s face took on its familiar glow, clearly back on solid ground. “But of course you are. You’re a Robins through and through, aren’t you?” She winked. “Well, tell me something I don’t know, then. Tell me about your friends. Tell me about the Hallowe’en show. Oh, and what poor soul is teaching Defence Against the Dark Arts _this_ year—?”

“She’s home for holiday, not a bloody interrogation,” Bertrand rumbled from the armchair, lighting a cigarette. 

I, on the other hand, sponged up Aunt Theo’s questions. Mum hadn’t been half as inquisitive about Autumn term. When I got around to mentioning Galatea Merrythought, Uncle Bertrand gave me a queer look. 

“Professor Merrythought? She retired while your mother and I were students. She was ancient even then.”

Aunt Theo’s lips twitched in amusement. “Sounds like she’s even more ancient now, and no longer retired. Well, go on then, Philippa. Does Dumbledore still make the skeletons step-dance?”

My answer withered in my throat as soon as Mum walked in, toting a platter of mugs and saucers. Right. Probably best not to get into what had transpired on Hallowe’en. 

She set down Uncle Bertrand’s coffee and placed a fragrant pot of Earl Grey in front of Aunt Theo. I reached for it; Mum cleared her throat and jerked her head at another teapot, which we were apparently meant to share. I peered inside and wrinkled my nose. Green tea. It always smelled of grass clippings to me, and tasted it, to boot.

“Let me say again how good it is of you both to join us,” Mum said, wrapping her long fingers around her steaming mug. I know it’s…”

“Stupid?” 

Aunt Theo cringed on behalf of her husband. Mum just glared.

“I was going to say ‘macabre,’ but you’re entitled to your opinion, Bertrand. You’re also entitled to keep it to yourself.” 

I couldn’t help myself. My lips positively itched to speak. “Uncle Bertrand, do you know how much money Mum is spending on this psychic?”

Mum grimaced. Aunt Theo cut in, leaning over to pour herself some tea.

“No price is too high to sleep through the night. Especially for a mother.” She squeezed Mum’s hand. “We’re happy to do it, Bethany. Really.”

Mum gave her a smile like a flickering lightbulb. We all sipped civilly at our tea for a few agonising moments before Mum clapped her hands together, rather unconvincingly. “Speaking of mothers — Demelza! You haven’t said a lick about her. How is that little moppet?”

Uncle Bertrand heaved smoke out of his nostrils like a dragon. “They’re not the Terrible Twos for nothing.”

“Demi’s quite all right. Bertrand is just cross because we had an incident involving her birthday candles…” Aunt Theo looked at him sidelong.

“Remember when I thought she might be a Squib?” Uncle Bertrand churlishly sipped his coffee. “I was mistaken.”

“ _Quite_ mistaken. Your eyebrow is only just beginning to grow back,” Aunt Theo tacked on gleefully. 

“Oh, congrats! Her first magic — such a special day. Right up there with first words, first steps… I remember all of Philippa’s.” Mum patted my shoulder; I shrunk away. “Speaking of Squibs, I tutored quite the hopeless case last week. I feel terrible for—”

A birdlike rap fell on the door. We all looked at each other. I felt a sudden scrambling in my gut; the expressions on everyone else’s face betrayed their own eleventh-hour doubts. When the knock sounded again, more emphatically this time, Mum shakily stood up. “I’ll get it,” she said, more for her own benefit than ours.

A flurry of overlapping pleasantries filled the foyer before a gauzy-looking woman swept in. She reminded me of some of the Roma mystics depicted on Hogwarts tapestries and studded throughout my History of Magic textbook: dusky, heavy-lidded, of indeterminate age, with jangly jewelry and a thousand-yard stare. A raggedy tote bag slung from her shoulder. For a brief moment, I could see why my mother was fooled by her. She surveyed our faces with unsinkable serenity, an airy smile playing her lips. 

“Your family? A delightful group, positively delightful…” She cocked her head and circled a long, lacquered nail at all of us, the bracelets on her wrist clinking. “The four of you have a powerful aura, if you don’t mind me saying so.”

“We get that a lot,” Uncle Bertrand deadpanned. As the woman shrugged off her outer shawl, Aunt Theo elbowed him, hard.

“Tamzin. I’ll be your spiritual guide today.” She shook each of our hands wispily then floated herself into the frailest chair in the living room. Uncle Bertrand and I preemptively winced — that seat was usually off-limits, since it wheezed with the sitter’s weight — but this time, it was silent. 

Tamzin rubbed her palms on her legs as though to warm them. “Tell me: Have any of you participated in a séance before?” The three of us shook our heads as Mum poured Tamzin some Earl Grey. The medium only nodded vacantly in acknowledgment, but didn’t elaborate or offer a primer.

Aunt Theo cleared her throat. Nothing made her more uncomfortable than silence. “So sorry to have you come out on a holiday, Miss Tamzin. You’re very kind to do this.”

“Not a problem. I don’t celebrate Christmas.” She sipped at her tea.

“Us either. Hanukkah sameach,” Uncle Bertrand said, sarcasm dripping from his voice. 

Tamzin giggled, a glittering laugh almost indistinguishable from the rattling of her jewelry. “No, that’s not it. I celebrate the solstice. I’m Wiccan, see.”

“You’re a what?” Mum’s brow furrowed.

“Wiccan. Nature worship. Sun cycles.” The medium’s eyebrow cocked, almost imperceptably. “Witchcraft.”

“Coincidences never cease! That sounds like us, all right.” Uncle Bertrand unfurled his hands in faux delight. Aunt Theo flailed to kick his shin, trying and failing to do so surreptitiously. I audibly snorted; when Mum glared, I flung my arm over my nose to pass it off as a cough. 

“I meant to ask you earlier, dear: Where did you study? Your accent is quite peculiar,” Mum hazarded. Her arms were crossed, clinging to her cardigan sleeves in a way that made it clear she was anxious for the answer.

Tamzin blinked a slow, languid blink. “School wasn’t my speed.”

“So… you didn’t study witchcraft anywhere, then?”

“No, I’m self-taught,” Tamzin said with all the placidity of a shrug, still sipping at her tea. 

Mum reeled back. “That’s quite… unusual, isn’t it?”

Tamzin turned to her nonchalantly. “I don’t think so. Do you?”

“Yes, I do,” Mum said, more urgently now. “I don’t know a single witch or wizard who hasn’t gone through one of the major wizarding schools—”

Aunt Theo’s mouth went into a hard line and she stared at her boots. Uncle Bertrand glared at Mum through his bushy eyebrows and rivulets of smoke.

Tamzin cocked her head to one side. She reminded me, absurdly, of a less wide-eyed Walt. “We must know very different witches, then.”

Her words steeped the air. Mum's shoulders visibly sagged, and she dipped her head, squeezing her eyes shut. I could sympathise with Aunt Theo: The silence was excruciating.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Mum clapped her knees and stood up. “All right, then. May as well get started.”

“Seriously?” I blurted. One graze over Uncle Bertrand and Aunt Theo’s face told me they were surprised by this turn of events, too. “We’re doing this?”

“Come off it, Philippa.” Mum used her _I’ll only warn you once_ voice.

“She’s a fraud! She just said it herself. And you’re going to pay a hundred whatever quid anyway?” 

A meaty hand grabbed my collar and jerked me into the kitchen. I writhed against Uncle Bertrand in protest before he released me, cordoning us off from the dining–sitting room with a slam of the slatted door. He dabbed his cigarette out on a dirty place on the countertop.

“Look,” he said, bending down to get at my height and ticking his coarse hair out of his eyes. “I think this is rubbish, too, Philippa. And your mother’s a fool for putting us in this position. But we’re following her marching orders today, and we _cannot_ — I repeat, can _not_ — compromise the Statute of Secrecy over this. Do you understand me?”

“But you were staying stuff earlier, too!”

“Do as I say, not as I do.” His voice somehow dropped even lower. “Swear it.”

Who did he remind me of in that moment? _Pip, swear to me that you won’t tell a living soul…_

The corners of my mouth quivered. “Fine. I promise.”

Uncle Bertrand gave me another once-over before steering me out by the shoulders. Everyone was now seated at the dining room table; Tamzin regarded me with studied curiosity. 

“Sorry about that, everyone. Just had to remind Philippa of her manners,” Uncle Bertrand grunted. Politeness suited him about as well as a tutu did a bear. 

“Sorry, Miss Tamzin,” I grumbled under my breath. “I’m ready now.”

“No need to apologize. Youthful passion. I understand perfectly.” Tamzin gestured to the wicker chair between her and Mum. “Sit.”

Taking cues from the rest of the table, I reluctantly took both their hands. Tamzin muttered something under her breath; even sitting right next to her, I couldn’t make it out.

“Breathe,” she commanded at normal volume. I could hear Aunt Theo and Mum’s chests swell; Uncle Bertrand and I followed more hesitantly.

“In… and out. In… and out…”

At the umpteenth iteration, I zoned out, swimming in my thoughts. What was it going to be like going back to Hogwarts after so much time at home? I hadn’t cried as often in three months at Hogwarts as I had three days here. Everything remotely having to do with Jacob was so intense now. I thought I’d done the noble thing by following in his footsteps and attending Hogwarts. But rather than run towards him, was I running _away_ from him? I’d distracted myself so much with marks and duels that I hadn’t learned hardly anything at all about the Vaults — and what meagre half-clue I’d gotten had been promptly locked away by Filch… 

I thought of Penny and her pursuit of the Forgetfulness Potion. Who needed Forgetfulness Potion when you were as crummy a sibling as me?

A piercing bell sounded over my left shoulder. I jumped in my seat, suddenly aware of the tears streaming down my cheeks. Aunt Theo and Uncle Bertrand had also flinched, their eyes open. Tamzin had somehow procured a small handbell. Only Mum’s eyes remained serenely shut, though my stomach flipped when I noticed her face was also wet with tears.

“Do not fear,” Tamzin cooed. “We have lifted the veil. A spirit approaches…”

I cleared my throat. “W-Who?”

“Only the spirit can tell us that,” she said. “Shall we invite it to enter?”

“Yes.” The swiftness of Mum’s reply made me jump anew.

“Very well.” Tamzin dropped her voice again, muttering nonsense. She stopped when she noticed Mum’s eyes hungrily searching the room. 

“Oh, dear, that won’t do. Such spirits aren’t visible to the living.” 

I resisted the urge to punch Tamzin’s smug little mouth. 

Tamzin nodded sagely, then dropped my hand like deadweight. She pointed near the cluttered hatstand in the sitting room. “I’m sensing spiritual energy in the threshold. A troubled spirit, I think...”

We all trained our gaze on the space between the foyer and the sitting room. It looked like no one else was going to talk again — Mum looked overwhelmed, Aunt Theo anxious, and Uncle Bertrand like he smelled something foul. 

“Erm… Who is it, then?” I ventured.

“Unfamiliar spirits are most amenable to yes or no questions,” she half-answered, hauling out two bent wires from the bag pooling beneath her chair. “The dowsing rods will provide the answer.”

“Why can we only ask it yes or no questions?”

“Spirits are like the living, no?” The rods clattered about terribly. “They must trust you before telling the truth.”

“But if we talk to my brother, he’ll already know us and trust us.” I was losing my patience all over again.

She looked at me sidelong, annoyance flashing from behind her zen façade. Clearly, the feeling was mutual. “It’s a condition of the Beyond. We do not question what we cannot understand.”

I thought of the time the Fat Friar entertained my questions about death all the way up the Astronomy Tower and rolled my eyes. _Clearly the Hogwarts ghosts have no problems with that rule._

“Are you Jacob Poe?” Mum cut in. 

One of the rods minutely twitched, but they remained still otherwise. “Perhaps try asking another question,” Tamzin urged. 

The tea tray sitting at the end of the dining room table gave a shudder. We all jumped in our seats, Tamzin included. “If I didn’t know better, I would say our spirit is getting impatient.” She smiled feebly.

I met Uncle Bertrand’s aquiline eyes, piercing me from across the table. I shook my head minutely. _I didn’t do it._

Aunt Theo pursed her lips. “Is it… Beth and Bertie’s father?”

This time, the rods didn’t even budge. Tamzin closed her eyes. “I can sense this spirit is very restless. Very… angry.” She tweaked her blackberry-coloured lips. “Has your son known loss, Mrs Poe?”

“Can’t you tell us that?” I asked bitterly. The tea set gave a lurch.

Mum’s voice sounded granitic. “Duncan Ashe.”

The dowsing rods went crazy, and Tamzin flickered her cat-like eyes open. 

Oh, good Godric. _Duncan Ashe._

I haven’t told you about Duncan Ashe. Frankly, I try not to think about Duncan Ashe if I can help it. He was one of Jacob’s closest friends at Hogwarts, a Slytherin, and the only one I ever met face-to-face. Jacob brought him to Canterbury one holiday break, since Duncan was usually one of the kids who stayed at the castle. Truthfully, I hadn’t liked Duncan much; his friendship with Jacob always seemed to be hot and cold, and he had this look about him that made it seem like he’d been telling a joke at your expense moments before you walked into the room. Sure enough, Mum politely requested he not come ’round again when she noticed some Galleons missing from her purse after the holiday. (Clearly, she’d become less preoccupied with her purse contents over time.) 

When Duncan and Jacob’s friendship ran smoothly, they were thick as thieves. Then, during their seventh year, just after Christmas, Duncan got himself blown up in the Prefect’s Bathroom while brewing an illegal potion.

“Duncan who?” Aunt Theo looked to and fro between me and Mum.

“Jacob’s friend.” My mum’s voice was hoarse. “The one who…”

Aunt Theo's mouth went into a little O, and she nodded. The news had made the rounds in our family. Kids died at Hogwarts every few years, usually doing magic they’re not supposed to. But to us, Duncan’s death was much more than a freak accident. It was a catalyst — of what, exactly, I’m not sure. All we know is that Jacob was expelled and went missing shortly after Duncan died. 

“Duncan,” Tamzin said, soft as a whisper, “do you have something to tell us?”

Again, the dowsing rods swiveled.

“Are you controlling those with your thumbs—?”

Tamzin shushed me. “Any other questions?”

“Where is Jacob?” That was Mum, pinched and desperate-sounding.

“Yes or no questions,” Tamzin repeated. Rage flared in my gut; the tea tray banged, and everyone at the table shifted nervously.

“Do you know where Jacob is?” Mum asked. The rods remained still. 

“Cross the rods if yes, move them apart if no,” Tamzin added after a few seconds. Gradually, agonisingly, the rods tilted away from one another.

Everyone at the table seemed to deflate. I snuck a look at Mum’s face; it was inscrutable. After a moment’s silence, Tamzin cleared her throat.

“Miss Poe, you may be able to ask the Ashe boy more questions with the Ouija board, if that is of help to you. He is still listening.”

“The what?” Mum’s voice sounded like an echo.

Rather than explain further, Tamzin hoisted a wooden board with all sorts of letters and numbers out of her bag, then placed a smaller, fishscale-shaped chip on top. 

“It spells out the answers?” Tamzin nodded. Mum pursed her lips, then looked around, beseeching us with her eyes. “Can we… can we at least try?”

“Of course,” Aunt Theo answered for Uncle Bertrand and me. I, for one, felt like flipping over the table and running down the street screaming. I wasn’t sure how much of this I could take. Uncle Bertrand looked like he felt the same, cycling through several shades of puce. 

“Set your fingers lightly on the planchette,” Tamzin directed. We obeyed, and she nodded at my mother.

“When was the last time you saw Jacob?” Mum asked.

The planchette stayed put. Then, in fits and starts, it zigzagged across the board, spelling out seven letters: “CANT SAY.”

“Why not?” I asked through gritted teeth. This time, I lifted my fingers ever so slightly off the chip. I wanted to test something.

It spelled out a response like before. “SECRET.”

“Someone’s moving it, but not me. I didn’t touch it that time,” I said.

“Disbelief is construed by some spirits as disrespect,” Tamzin said coolly, not looking at me. 

“Duncan, what do you want from us?” Mum sounded haggard.

The planchette drifted around the board aimlessly, then: “SORRY.”

“For what?” Mum sounded increasingly frantic.

The board’s reply felt like it took an eternity: “DEAD.” 

Mum fought back a dry, cracked sob. I wheeled on Tamzin. “You’re pushing it, I _just_ saw—”

“Shh!” Tamzin shushed me.

“Well, let me ask another question, then,” I cut in. “Duncan, how come you were bullied at school?” 

It was a trick question, seeing as I knew the answer. To this day, Duncan remains the only Muggle-born Slytherin I’ve ever heard of, and according to Jacob, his house never let him forget it. I think that’s why he and Jacob were such fast friends. My brother had a way of attracting other outcasts, like moths to lamplight. 

Again, I kept my fingers a millimeter off the planchette. It hesitated for what felt like an eon, then slid southward, rather quickly. “GOODBYE.”

The silence around the table congealed. “I think you offended him,” Tamzin said matter-of-factly.

“No, _you’re_ not letting us ask actual questions,” I fumed. 

“Philippa…” Theo’s warning voice was a threadbare shadow of its former self. She was plainly in agony, too.

“If you’re psychic, prove it! What does Duncan look like? What’s his last name?”

Tamzin looked at me stonily. “The spirit has departed. I no longer feel his presence.”

“There’s no one here! No one was ever here.”

The tea set started clanking again, deafeningly. Tamzin’s eyes cautiously flickered in its direction.

“I know for a _fact_ ,” I said, carefully enunciating each word, “there’s no ghosts in this house, my brother is missing, and you’re a _big, fat liar—!”_

An explosion, then a scream. By the time I worked out what happened, Aunt Theo had shakily cast _Reparo_ on the teapot, Tamzin lay crumpled on the floor, and Uncle Bertrand loomed over her, wand at the ready. Mum, on the other hand, sat rigid in her chair, eyes squeezed closed and stock-still but for her quivering jaw.

* * *

Before they left for the evening, Aunt Theo knocked on my door. Tamzin would be all right, she said — Uncle Bertrand had modified her memories so she believed she’d had an accident while deep-frying a turkey. The kettle burns probably wouldn’t be permanent. Miraculously, in an accidental feat of wandless magic, no one else had gotten scalded; Aunt Theo winked and told me it must’ve been my Robins genes at work.

Uncle Bertrand came in a few minutes later, looking about a thousand years old. “Your mum’s having a lie-down in her room. We’re off,” he said curtly. I nodded, curled up on my bed.

I thought back to the exploding teapot. _Merula_. I must’ve inadvertently cast the exact same protective spell she did the first day of Potions. She’d avoided getting burned when my cauldron blew to smithereens, hadn't she? That afternoon, I’d done the same, but for my whole family and without a wand, to boot.

 _Not bad for a twelve-year-old,_ I thought smugly, basking in Theo’s praise. I was going to claim my winnings where I could this hellish day. _Who’s the most powerful witch at Hogwarts now?_

Speaking of rat-faced Slytherins, I now had Duncan Ashe on the mind. Of _course_ his death and Jacob’s disappearance were linked. But how? My personal theory — one I think my parents silently shared — was that Jacob suspected foul play and did something reckless to avenge Duncan’s death. Reckless, but noble. 

Only thing is, that theory didn’t totally add up: In his formal letter disclosing Jacob’s expulsion and subsequent meetings with my parents, Dumbledore made no mention of Duncan at all, just said that Jacob had “broken school rules and conducted himself in a manner irreconcilable with further attendance at Hogwarts.” I'd found the letter myself; I knew the words like they were etched on the back of my hand.

Clearly, if Duncan had anything to do with _anything_ , Dumbledore was keeping it close to the vest. And now, this Muggle had the gall to claim that his spirit was lurking about our living room... Tamzin had no idea what can of worms she’d opened.

One thing was certain: When I got back to Hogwarts, I had to start asking around about Duncan. I internally kicked myself for not doing that sooner, but honestly, I knew I’d been avoiding it. Of _course_ there were students at Hogwarts who remembered Duncan, however peripherally. Question was, would I be able to handle whatever I’d find out?

I rolled over on my stomach, facing the window. I could already tell I was going to have a hell of a time falling asleep tonight. So would Mum, I was sure. The look on her face during the séance…

I pushed myself to my feet and padded down the hall. Mum’s door was cracked. I hadn’t been inside since I’d gotten home.

I creaked it open. My voice sounded small, like a child’s half my age. “Mum?”

“Come in.”

I obliged. Mum was curled up on her bed, a mirror image of myself in my room just minutes prior. My gaze swept the room, and I gasped.

Across her, crowding the top of the dresser facing her bed, were all the missing pictures of Jacob. No — _every single surface in her room_ was covered with pictures. First Day of Hogwarts Jacob perched in front of her makeup mirror, flashing a gap-toothed smile in front of a steaming Hogwarts Express. Tiny Hiking Jacob and Learning-To-Read Jacob both looked totally engrossed in their own worlds, ignoring the fact that their photographer had balanced them precariously on a narrow windowsill. A roughly chronological progression of Jacobs wiggled, waved, and winced from the dresser. Bar Mitzvah Jacob bobbed somewhere in the middle, clinging to his chair white-knuckled during the horah. 

I stepped inside, my mouth ajar. My eyes hungrily ran over every frame, every corner of the room, then landed at her nightstand. There, within arm’s reach from where my mother now lay, was a photo of Jacob and I together, maybe three or four years ago. We were both asleep in our living room fort, heads angled towards one another.

I rubbed at my eyes. “You— you didn’t throw them away.”

She shook her head. 

Thinking back on that moment, both of us swimming in our own thoughts, I’ve realised something rather shameful: I do not think I apologised. In a moment when my mother’s pain was so potent, so legible, I don’t think my lips could even begin to form the words _I’m sorry._

What I do remember, though, is clambering into bed with her, her scooting over to make more room for me. For now, it was enough to hold each other, look at the gallery of my brother’s life, and retreat into the past together. I’d focus on the future once I got back to Hogwarts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait! I had a hell of a time with this chapter; the medium was initially written as a comic character, which wasn't landing at all (and played into JKR's tired bumbling-Muggle trope, to boot). I gave it a redux and feel a bit better about this version. Thanks to those who left kudos!


	19. Holiday Spoils

After the séance, Mum and I reached a new understanding. We still couldn’t manage to talk at length without grating on one another, and we certainly weren’t without our spats, but the rest of the holiday passed without consequence — which is to say, without pyrotechnics. She even surprised me by tagging along to King’s Cross at the end of the holiday, managing terse small talk with Rowan’s family. The once-inconceivable crisis of Rowan finding out my mother taught Divination passed without consequence; in fact, when Mr Khanna jokingly asked if Mum saw anything in Rowan and I’s future, she lavished the appropriate amount of very vague praise. It was rather well-played.

“ _We’ll leave our mark on Hogwarts for years to come..._ Maybe it’s true! Maybe you’ll find the Cursed Vaults, and I’ll become the youngest professor at Hogwarts!” Rowan shuffled after me, seemingly dizzy from the interaction. “Phil, you didn’t tell me your Mum was a Seer! That’s an incredibly rare skill. And it explains what happened to you in the Artefact Room—”

“She’s not a Seer,” I said flatly. “But her research has to do with future-telling, so she fancies herself one.”

“Oh. Well, I guess that kind of makes sense — if you spend all your time studying ways to tell the future, you’d probably get a feel for telling it yourself. Maybe I’ll do some reading on it when we get back to Hogwarts...” Rowan sighed in contentment. “I missed the Library so much. What did you miss most about Hogwarts?”

“Penny!” I yelped. I’d spotted a blonde head through the Express windows. “Hurry, let’s sit with her before someone else does.”

We scrambled aboard and got to Penny just as a wiry boy left her compartment. She enthusiastically waved us in.

“Who was that? Did he not want to sit down?” Rowan glanced out the door at the slight figure sulking down the car.

“Probably not. He’s pretty shy. A Ravenclaw.” Rowan peered after him with renewed interest. “Well, spill the beans! How was your holiday?”

“Brilliant! It was my birthday two days after Christmas—"

"Hey, you didn't tell us that!" I protested. Rowan flashed her lopsided grin apologetically; Penny started to belt "Happy Birthday" at the top of her lungs, but ground to a halt after Rowan frantically shushed her and she caught acrid glares from some Slytherins in the opposite compartment.

"Anyway, we played lots of Wizard Scrabble, and my dad let me practise riding his broom — I’m still getting the hang of it, though. Ashok accidentally shrunk the Christmas tree, then Mum fixed it. It looked pretty cute, though; I wish we’d kept it… Oh, oh! Then, as a birthday present, my parents got me _An Appraisal of Magical Education in Europe!”_ Rowan surveyed Penny and I’s blank faces for any trace of excitement. “You know, the book about all the magical schools in Europe? No? Well, OK. I’ll let you guys borrow it when I’m done!”

“And you said you got a Walkman, Phil?” Penny trained all her attention on me.

“I wanna see!” Rowan piped up.

“All right, then. Drumroll, please.” I slyly pulled the Walkman out of my bag, flourishing it for dramatic effect. Penny _oohed_ and _aah_ ed, and Rowan peered at it so closely her glasses nearly collided with the cartridge.

“Some drumroll, guys. Anyway, you guys can listen to it on the train ride back if you really want. You’re my best friends, so I’ll allow it.”

I was interrupted by a retching noise from the door to our compartment. Merula had ducked in the doorway, making exaggerated sick faces. 

“Put that away, Poe — I can smell the Muggle stench from here,” she sneered. The older Slytherins across the car barely concealed their snorts.

Even without looking, I could tell Rowan had dropped her eyes awkwardly, probably praying to some higher power that I didn’t charge after Merula and get myself detention before class had even started. Penny just squirmed in her seat. I remembered how quietly she’d spoken when she’d told me about Scarlett. She’d been quietest of all when she confessed Scarlett had been a Muggle. Mum and Dad had told me and Jacob all about Muggle and Muggle-born hate, but even Jacob’s stories about Duncan couldn’t prime me for the things I’d heard.

 _Duncan._ That’s right. I needed to find out more about him. Slytherin seemed as good a place as any to start. Only problem was, I didn’t really know any Slytherins. Except…

“Hey, Merula. Wait.”

Merula turned, her hand hovering over the part of her waistband that sheathed her wand. Rowan desperately tugged at my robes. I waved her off.

I cleared my throat, keenly aware that I was in earshot of the other Slytherins. “What have you heard about Duncan Ashe?”

Merula was visibly taken aback, but still forced her face into a leer. “The dead Mudblood? Why, what about him?”

Just as charming as expected. I narrowed my eyes. “I asked you first.”

By now, our standoff had caught the upperclassmen’s attention. There were four of them, and judging by their height and complexions, I guessed they were sixth- or seventh-years. One muttered something to another.

Merula cocked a dark eyebrow. “Weren’t he and your brother friends? So you should know, shouldn’t you?”

“Yeah, _‘friends,’_ ” one of the Slytherins piped up sardonically. When he realised he was now speaking for a small audience — Penny and Rowan included — he glanced at his friends for backup. “That’s not what the rest of the House thinks, right?”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Do you really not know?” One of the others, a mean-looking boy with high cheekbones and jheried hair, looked me up and down and scoffed. “Your brother offed him, stupid. Isn’t it obvious?” 

One of Cheekbones’s friends elbowed him sharply. I wasn’t following. My eyes ping-ponged from face to face, looking for an explanation.

Merula’s eyes bored into mine. “He’s saying your brother’s a murderer, Poe.” 

I staggered back; Merula may as well have cast the arrow-shooting curse with her eyes. The Slytherin consensus was that _Jacob_ killed Duncan? No… It couldn’t be. Dumbledore would have known if he were so much as a person of interest. He would have told us if he was. He knew everything that happened at Hogwarts, right...? 

“Piss-poor way to repay a friend, your brother.” Cheekbones’s eyes glittered maliciously. “And to think… Ashe followed him around like a servant.” He tutted, turning to his mates. “Shame, too. I was in the market for a house elf back then.”

One of his companions gave a short, barking laugh. The rest smiled feebly, but didn’t say anything. I retreated to my compartment, chancing one last furious glare at Merula. It might have been my imagination, but she didn’t seem to revel in dangling this particular piece of information over my head.

“You OK, Phil?” Rowan asked in a very small voice.

“No, obviously,” I snapped. 

“Don’t listen to them,” Penny consoled me. “It’s a stupid rumour. Besides, all of Slytherin hated Duncan. Everybody knows that.”

“ _Everybody_ knows? Does the whole school think my brother… you know…?”

She hesitated, pursing her lips. That alone answered my question. “Well, probably not _everybody…”_

“People have been talking about my brother and Duncan this whole time? Why didn’t you tell me?”

Penny looked troubled. “I-I didn’t want to hurt your feelings.”

“Well, you don’t believe all that about my brother, do you?” Penny shook her head, but didn’t look me in the eye when she did it. I turned on Rowan. “Do you?” Rowan rattled her head so vigorously she nearly knocked her glasses off.

I don’t remember if I said anything to them. I stomped out of the compartment and paced the train until we got to Hogwarts.

* * *

Turns out it’s none too easy to avoid your roommates. I dropped off my luggage while Rowan and Penny unpacked; rather than join them, I shoved my bag on my bed and stormed out before Rowan could so much as say a sentence. I resolved to find Professor Sprout and request a dorm transfer straightaway. Yes, the Ms were a headache, not to mention incorrigible gossips in their own right, but at least they didn’t pretend to be my friend, then gossip about my missing brother behind my back. 

I trudged to the Herbology greenhouse in the fading light. Outside, the grounds were in the grossest stage of snow-melt, when everything turns a shade of brown or grey and it's all too easy to slip in mud, ice, or both. A subtle glow beckoned, invitingly, from within the tent. Sprout must be in there. I cautiously waded my way over.

I stepped inside, becoming sweat-drenched in seconds. Thanks to Professor Sprout’s advanced charm, no matter the time of year, the Hogwarts greenhouse remained balmy as the Bahamas. I had to admit it felt pretty nice in the winter; even so, it induced a Pavlovian response in me. Depending on the week, Herbology was neck-and-neck with History of Magic as my least favourite Hogwarts class.

“Professor Sprout?” I said, preemptively shedding my coat. At my call, a silver head popped up over some ferns — just not the one I was expecting.

“Phil! It’s you. You scared me,” Chiara said. “Is everybody back from holiday already?”

“Yeah. The train got in and I came straight here.” I looked around. “Um, are you gardening… alone?”

She flushed. “The greenhouse is one of my favourite places on campus, besides the Owlery. I didn’t know you gardened, too.”

“Oh, no, no. I’m just looking for Professor Sprout. I guess I’ll try somewhere else, then.” I inched awkwardly towards the threshold.

“Wait! Um… I got your letter.” Chiara blushed deeper and twiddled with a nearby ficus. “You’re the only person who wrote me. It was really nice of you.”

If I’d felt awkward before, it was nothing compared to how I felt now. “No problem. I was just wondering what Hogwarts was like over holiday.”

Chiara heaved an impressively capacious sigh. “Boringer than you’d expect. And you were right, Jane was a…” She trailed off; we both snickered knowingly. 

An invisible weight levitated off my shoulders. I kept forgetting I had more friends than just my roommates. 

“Hey, Chiara, I was wondering…” I picked at a thread on my coat. “What have you heard about my brother?”

She shrugged. “I’ve heard lots of things.”

“Like what?”

Chiara paced towards me and hopped up on the long potting table, legs swinging. “Well, that he was in Ravenclaw, right? And that he’s expelled and missing, obviously. Then, I’ve heard Slytherins say that he joined You-Know-Who and killed Duncan Ashe ’cause of it. Oh, and that Angelica Cole fancied him.”

“That’s— wait, what? Angelica who?”

“One of the Gryffindor prefects. I overheard some Gryffindors talking about it.” Chiara smiled, almost imperceptibly. “I overhear a lot of things.”

“I don’t even know who she is,” I said, awestruck. “But you know the other part's a lie, right? That my brother didn’t kill Duncan?”

“I don’t believe it, no.” Chiara tilted her head. “Besides, they’re all lies until proven true, right?”

“Right,” I said, feeling vindicated. “Why do people think he killed Duncan, anyway?”

Chiara's mouth twitched. "I have an idea, but I shouldn't say."

"How come?"

"It's sort of mean."

"You can tell me. I don't mind."

“Well..." Chiara fingered her necklace sheepishly. "I figure Slytherins _have_ to believe it, ’cause none of them want to believe a Slytherin would blow himself up.” She shrugged. "That's all."

To my disbelief, I found myself laughing — not because what Chiara said was particularly funny, but out of sheer relief. Of _course_ Slytherins would think that. Of course! I hadn't even thought of it. Chiara broke a hesitant smile, clearly bemused by my reaction, and shrugged again.

As we walked out of the greenhouse together to supper, I decided, this time for good, that I liked Chiara after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't tell if this is a short chapter, or if the last chapter was so mind-numbingly massive that any chapter will now feel short. In any case, here's a little morsel of an update!

**Author's Note:**

> First time posting fan fiction online, and would love feedback! Going to try to get all of the first installment up this month, which will cover the MC's first year at Hogwarts.
> 
> Full disclosure: This was inspired by getting into HP:HM around the time of the Harper's Letter. I'm reconciling my ever-deepening disillusionment with Rowling with the fact that, years on, the world she created still captivates my nonbinary ass. But my sentiments aren't new. 
> 
> TL;DR this is as much as a dunk on her as it is an exercise in self-accountability.
> 
> I'm trying my best to be a stickler about accuracy, plausibility, etc., so I will be hewing as close to canon as these goofy games allow. But please check me in the comments if I slip up!


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